Magnus Invicta
by Commissar Waffles
Summary: (Currently undergoing massive rewrite, updates will be posted in forum.) Tricked and damned by fate, cast aside and confronted with oblivion, Magnus the Red is reborn. In this new era, on a new world, he will be the guiding hand to pick up the remnants of what was left behind, to rediscover himself and remember who he once was...
1. Prologue (TBR)

The city of Vale was burning. Monstrous beasts of Grimm flooded the streets and tormented the few civilians still around, however one's focus would be more drawn to Beacon Tower and the immense, bestial and draconic Wyvern that beat its gigantic wings and screeched as it circled the tower. Far, far beneath, an unstoppable object met an unstoppable force, two beings fought and collided with the power of Gods behind every movement.

One, an agent of Chaos that sought to destroy all that the civilized world was and would be. Its opponent, a sentinel of Order, wishing to thwart the plans of those opposing it. Their weapons clashed, their magical synergy creating quakes that shook the very foundation of Beacon Tower. Only one could walk away from this fight, and as the climax of their fight reached its end, the symbol of Order lay battered and broken on the ground, bleeding and weakened by combat and rusted by age.

"You put up a good fight… but not good enough," the agent of Chaos cackled, before driving her blade into Order's heart and stepping past him and the rickety Atlas machine housing the body of the once-Fall Maiden, now just a shriveling corpse, shuffling toward a pair of ornate doors of silver.

"You… will not win… You cannot…" The symbol allowed himself to sputter and cough, slowly rising and slumping against the wall, ichor seeping from his mouth and wounds.

"Says the one bleeding out on the ground," the agent slowly pulled at the great door, and after a few moments of struggle, it opened a crack, and seemed to depressurize, sending the agent stumbling backwards from the force of the stale air as the doors blasted open and the light fixtures, grand golden torches inscribed with scarabs. The agent glanced back at the dying man, smirked to herself, and walked back to him. She grabbed him up by the collar and dragged him along with her down the gold and silver hall lit by brilliant orange-red flame reflecting off gold and silver to make the room almost glow.

"It's all mine, dear Ozpin…" She stepped through another pair of huge doors, onto a great balcony, the torches along the walls lighting in chain reaction, bathing the room in colourful light via crystals and massive chandeliers. Far below them, an army of sleeping giants lay, knelt to one knee, swords in offhands and guns upon hips. Their armour, ornate yet simple, painted bright scarlet. The agent held Ozpin over the rail and forced him to look upon the army, numbering four hundred. This army split down the center in a cross, all leading to a grand pedestal, carrying a great vortex of cackling, swirling energies that would send this agent to the maze protecting the Relic of Choice.

The agent dragged him down flights of elegant stairs and to the base of the pedestal, where she admired it for a moment. The near lifeless body of Ozpin in her arms croaked and coughed once more, reminding the agent of his presence.

"Goodbye, Ozpin… enjoy the afterlife, for however long you stay." She threw his near-corpse aside and stepped through the vortex. The ground seemed to rumble and shake as she entered. Ozpin glanced up from his place on the floor, his life draining rapidly. Two beams of brilliant green light blinded him, and the ground thumped around him. He could swear he saw the hulking suits of metal moving around him, some even looking upon him, however it did not take long for him to be ridden of consciousness.

"**Rest, old friend… I will come for you soon,**" were the last words the immortal warrior would hear through the ears of Professor Ozpin of Beacon Academy, from whom, he could not tell.

Searing, agonizing pain met his senses.

The kind of pain that turned even the most hardened of souls into blubbering, wailing wrecks, etching into his very mind like a railway spike nailed in with a sledgehammer, sending pulses of the throbbing, blistering pain into his very psyche, his savage cries of remorseful woe drowned out by the howling laughter of dark gods as they tormented him, breaking away at the walls that protected his very soul. The unsteady, instability of the Warp meant that he could spend anywhere from another hour in this hellcape, to many centuries, whilst only a moment may pass in the material realm.

This was his fate, as it has been for centuries in his war in the shadows against the encroaching darkness. Every resurrection came with ceaseless repercussions that continued to haunt and break at his soul, until one day, it would consume him. The fortress of his mind, **ravaged by the endless bloodshed, the blistering cackles of scheming gods, the burgeoning sickness and decay, the pleasureful moans and screams of the depraved.** Subject to this torture upon his death for what felt like centuries. Never once had he broken, but deep in his core, he knew he could not halt their advances upon his vulnerable soul forever, and yet he stood fast, determined and bolstered by a holiness he could not describe with his most fervent of words.

Then, just like that, it was gone. The howls of the damned, throwing themselves at his psychic barriers, the psionic torment of the dark gods that dwelled in the realm beyond the veil of reality ceased to project across his mind as he entered the material realm yet again, however it was not at all what he expected. His mind projected itself onto something he hesitated to call mortal. Something so alien and yet so familiar that it made him ache.

* * *

**_IMPERATOR * INVICTUS=_**

=] **Meanwhile, elsewhere…**[=

* * *

Remnant's orbit was dull, clear of the debris that marked a civilized world save for few dead probes, actively being picked over by the scavengers from the Ark Mechanicus, _Eddison's Blessings._ Beyond the veil of the distinctly shattered moon, there sat the partly illuminated silhouette of an Imperial fleet. A battle barge of the Salamanders and a barge of the Templars were distinct among them, but not as distinct as the capital vessel, which was less a ship as it was a void citadel.

It hung in space, glowing with holy radiance. It was a massive station, barely mobile as a vessel but certainly armed to the teeth and beyond. It stretched out like a spear punching through a discus, long and spindly with many spires and structures, most notably marked by the livery of the forsaken _Legiones Clyepstes_. By many titles did they go by, but one that many would know to be their true title.

II Legiones Astartes. The Sentinels. The vessel was known as _Atredian's Shield_, accompanied by a full expeditionary fleet of Astartes ships, alongside the Black Templars, Salamanders among other non-Astartean escorts. Inquisition, mostly. The Adeptus Mechanicus held close ties to the chapters within the legion and staked their interest in the legion due to the wealth of knowledge aboard the _Shield_, alongside the ancient tech that made up the vessel. An amalgam of Old Night and Great Crusade-era tech, it was a marvel of engineering and masterwork.

The _Atredian's Shield_ at this hour was quiet in all but one place. Through massive, Romanesque and Gothic corridors leading into the Grand Atrium echoed the arguments of Chapter Keeper Felgelan Fellbreaker of the _Gladius Veneratus, _Venerable Spears in low gothic, and Marshal Syras Kane of the Black Templars. The ranking members of the legion, aside Felgelan, were present. The Chief Librarian, Master of the Forge, the three other Chapter Keepers of the II Legion. All were present to hear the blights of the two bullheaded Astartes.

"—and you are but a petulant fool, _Fellbreaker!_ Those abhumans that you so speak of, they bear the foul touch of treachery! Their 'White Fang' murders, rapes and pillages across their world," came the seething remark by Syras. He paced back and forth beside an altar, his black artificer armour and tabard marred by scars of combat, the latter cloth fluttering softly as he paced. His helmet remained clipped to his belt; his hardened facial features twisted into a scowl. Three silver studs crested his forehead.

"You ignore the complications of things in hopes for a chance to commit a slaughter, _Kane_. You truly are a monument to the failures of this Imperium! You hastily charge toward the enemy without care or caution to those allies around you!" Felgelan snarled as he delivered his response. His armour was older, of the Mark VI pattern, slim and smooth, marred by pockmarks, dents and scratches, with cables exposed along his lower cuirass and back, a beaked Corvus-pattern helmet clipped to his waist. A chainmail cloak hung down beneath one pauldron, which bore the long, angular skull of a reptilian, the other pauldron marked with a golden aquila, a desert-pattern of camouflage painted over his armour, trimmed with silver.

"It is our duty as the Sentinels, as the _Legiones Clyepstes _to defend the children of the Emperor, even those that deviate from his form, however abominable… as for their White Fang… they will taste the fear of the full might of the _Gladius Veneratus_ when the time comes. They are traitorous swine who will be cut down in droves, but it is not for us to punish the whole of their lot for the actions of the few. If you will cease your witch-hunting where there are not but showmen and tricksters, I shall handle the problem. Personally, if I must!" Felgelan roared out, slamming his fist onto the altar, a slab covered in sheets, seals of purity, candles and incense. Syras scoffed. The nerve of these 'legionnaires,' these supposed Astartes. He ceased his pacing to point a finger at the chapter keeper accusingly.

"You… Your chapter… this _legion_ that you have… you are all weak. Bleeding-heart types do not belong in the ranks of the Astartes. Your place is among the history books, the kind that we burn!" Syras snarled. There were ten millennia difference between the two, each a pillar of their time. Syras, a zealous Templar with a record of cleansing the heretic, mutant and xeno alike. Felgelan, a preacher of the Imperial Truth and a justiciar for the misguided, with an equal disposition for traitors and xenos alike.

It was these differences that caused the clash of ideology. It was a powder keg, but for now it was dormant beyond the occasional spark of colliding wills.

Felgelan prepared another verbal assault at the Black Templar, however, was cut short by the approach of a serf.

"My lords, Warmaster Tibelis has called a briefing regarding the deployment of the legion to Remnant," he said upon bowing.

"Rise, serf. We shall be along shortly. Ave Imperator," Felgelan responded with a soft exhale through his nose, miffed at his argument being cut short. He figured it better, however, that the campaign was not halted.

The serf made his leave shortly before the two Astartes commanders, who gave a final word of 'we'll finish this conversation at another time' before making their way to the Grand Chapel, the briefing hall of the legion and the meeting ground for which the legion master would brief one hundred captains for one hundred companies. It was a grand room, flanked by columns with tall stained glass arched windows in between them. At the end of the room was the raised platform for which a statue sat behind a throne and several stone seats for representatives. The statue was the Emperor, standing with his blade to the ground, Malcador to his left, casting arcane bolts from his staff and the primarch to the right, his image desecrated, leaving but a statue of a suit of armour bearing the legion markings and a hulking war-hammer. Felgelan took his seat, as did Syras. Soon, they were joined by the other chapter keepers, of which there were four in total. Master of the Amaranthine Sages, Master of the Onyx Anvils and Master of the Boreal Paladins, each a hulking veteran Astartes, many, many centuries old with augmented forms and artificer plate. Felgelan's attention was not upon them, however, for once the captains of their companies and the remaining keepers entered, the legion master entered the chapel, alongside the Salamanders captain Agapirath Alvikus, the other commander of the Astartes escort to the legion.

Angemech Tibelis stood as a head taller than the average Custodian, adorned in a suit of ancient power armour. So ancient was his armour, it lacked void capability, with heavy sections of the armour, molecular bonding studs lining his pauldrons and cuirass, the raptor imperialis stamped onto his chest in yellow, his legs and gauntlets accented with similar lightning bolts. His lower face was cleanly shaven, his eyes hidden behind a shimmering red visor upon a golden helm that sported a crimson top-knot at its crest. This appearance brought many to speculate him to be of the Thunder Warriors, graced by the Emperor with proper genotherapy to save his failing body and given control of the legion to continue serving the Emperor. Others suggested he was of the Adeptus Custodes, left to serve as the keeper to the Forgotten Primarch's legion.

Regardless of his origins, even the most rebellious of the Black Templars, including Syras, understood they were in the presence of something beyond them. Upon his entry, every captain within the room, of which there were somewhere around forty, knelt. The chapter keepers and the marshal did the same. Respect was such a thing that was demanded and the Astartes, Legiones and Adeptus alike, knew the weight of the act of inaction.

The hulking master of the second took his seat at the throne, where once their primarch would have sat. He raised his hand and the room took their seats once more. He took a slow breath before projecting his voice across the room.

"**We arrived above this planet with its shattered moon four years ago. Since, we have sat dormant in orbit while our scouts, neophytes and serfs perform reconnaissance. No longer will we wait.**" His voice boomed throughout the chapel. He turned to face Marshal Syras and Felgelan.

"Felgelan Fellbreaker, your Venerable Spears will be deploying alongside the Black Templars to the island known as Menagerie to oversee the construction of a fortress-monastery where we can launch further operations." His eyes turned to another of the chapter keepers, an Astartes that was more metal than man.

"Lammedeus Tritus, take the Onyx Anvils and support our allies in the Adeptus Mechanicus in their research into the 'CCT' system and local technology." Lammedeus nodded at his orders, his armour seeming to physically bristle in anticipation, hinting at the mass of mechadendrites, oils and machinery that made up most of his form beneath the ancient, heavily-reinforced Iron-pattern power armour he wore, trimmed in silver with an urban-camouflage paint. Tibelis turned to the last two chapter keepers.

"Fenniamis Tibencus… your Amaranthine Sages will be useful in the protection of the Anima and Sanus continents," the chapter keeper in forest livery nodded, "and Hamenes Morrerian. Observe and begin infiltration of Mantle and Atlas. Something stirs beneath the surface, I've a feeling. Find out what it is and make clear that it cannot get in the way of our operations." Morrerian nodded. His armour was of winter livery, with scripture wraps and purity seals dotting across its surface, his beaked helmet's green lenses focusing on their legion keeper for but a moment.

"**Remnant is the next step in bringing the legion back to the graces of the Imperium and a step closer to locating the thrice-damned traitor, Magnus the Red. Your chapter keepers will brief you captains on specific objectives. Brief the sergeants and begin preparing for deployment. Avoid the major cities and do not draw attention to yourselves. Ave Imperator.**" A chorus of 'Ave's' met Angemech's augmented ears as the command staff were dismissed. Slowly, one-by-one, the forces began to depart, leaving only the chapter keepers and their legion master.

On the other side of the vessel, a sergeant of the Amaranthine Sages awoke from a restless sleep, ridden with visions of the world below. Within his mind, the symbol of Order to Remnant began to piece together memories and concluded something horrifying.

His war with Salem was naught but child's play in comparison to the war that was to come… and all he could do was delay it if he was lucky.

The faith and strength of Man would be tested. This would be a war that no man, woman or child would walk away from untouched by its acidic touch…


	2. Chapter One (TBR)

**Vale, three months after The Fall.**

The fires once ranging across the great city have died out, and without Huntsmen and Huntresses to stop them, the White Fang soon occupied the city, with hordes of Grimm penned into districts with debris, barbed wire and electrical barriers such as metal fences, herding them where they could do the most damage.

Baza grinned to himself as he watched a squad of White Fang begin pushing a group of humans out of an apartment complex, limbs chained with manacles and prodded at with rifles and shotguns to push them toward an old school bus, which would bring them to one of their prison camps.

Baza, ever the humble servant, could not take the credit for that idea. Adam Taurus, in his infinite wisdom, came up with that idea. That idea had been put into practice immediately, with Signal Academy's main campus modified with barricades and debris to make their primary camp, where the humans, male, female and children, would be lashed with searing chain whips and forced to work, funding their war machine with the weaponry necessary.

Baza never sympathized with the humans, he grew up on Menagerie with other faunus among one of the wealthier families, sheltering him from most treatment, and the training from the White Fang solidified that. Rigorous combat training and tests of their loyalty filled his childhood and teenage years. He recalled the first day, where he was given a puppy. Baza named it Bozo, and he _loved_ that dog. It was loyal as he, followed Baza wherever he went and was quick to train. Every bad day was made better whenever it was around, every time he came to his bunk with tears in his eyes from bullying and harsh training rituals, Bozo would be lying there, patiently waiting to climb into his lap and slobber all over Baza's face.

When he graduated, he was ordered to shoot that dog. Baza looked into its eyes, barely six years of age, and blew its brains out with a hunting rifle.

It didn't take the bull-horned faunus long to rise to the rank of lieutenant, and even less time before he was commanding a full company of hardened warriors to storm Beacon, and then, before he knew it, Adam Taurus _himself_ had given Baza the job of dealing with the human survivors and maintaining their hold on the City of Vale, and he did so happily.

Baza turned his head at a yell from his second in command, who was scrambling toward him, carnal fear in his eyes. This put Baza on edge, and he ordered the bus crew off, with a ten-man squad of soldiers carrying heavy weapons; five with miniguns, two with rocket launchers and three with heavy flamethrowers.

"What is it, Isa?" The bull slid his heavy pistol out of its holster and removed his maul from his back. Isa, a female tailed faunus, ran over, panting and gasping for air. Blood streaked her clothes and she was devoid of weaponry.

"W-We're being attacked… Giants in red armour… Oh, Gods, they killed everyone in A-Company!" The faunus grappled onto Baza, only to be shoved down by the muscle-toned ad hoc general. She collapsed to her knees, eyes wide and mouth sucking down air.

"What do you mean, 'they killed everyone'?! A-Company had our best veteran fighters and our heavy weapons," Baza screamed at her, lifting her up by the shoulders. She had no response, only staring at a stain of blood on Baza's chest, from her own blood-caked hands. Blood that wasn't hers, blood that came from a man cleaved in two by a monstrous blade of roaring teeth, and with that, Isa broke, sobbing loudly and babbling to herself. Baza turned to the heavy weapons squad.

"You, sergeant. Go back to the docks and find A-Company—" Baza began, before Isa latched onto his shoulders, shell-shocked eyes burning holes into his soul as they met his own eyes.

"**THEY ARE GONE!** They're all gone, you fool! The g-giants, they slew them with great swords of rending teeth and guns firing bullets the size of your fucking fists!" Isa was shoved to the ground, and before she could react, Baza placed two rounds into her gut, causing her to crumple and scream in agony.

"I will not tolerate your lies, Isa! I placed you in charge of an entire company, I do not believe our best veterans could be slain by huntsmen!" He turned to the sergeant, growling.

"Go. Now. Take your troops and go find out what the fuck she is on about," Baza snarled, holstering his pistol and taking his maul into two hands. The squad sergeant hesitated, staring at the bleeding girl on the ground.

"Do I need to repeat myself, you insubordinate wench?!" Baza yelled, fury in his voice. The sergeant quickly shook her head and began jogging down the road, heading left at a fork that bore a row of buildings down the middle, and long, winding roads with additional rows at either side, even as screams and the pounding of what could only be considered cannon fire began to fill the air. Baza growled and turned to see the bus returning with two more squads of soldiers, infantry in five-man squads, wielding assault rifles with sergeants wielding light machine guns.

"What is the meaning of this? I did not ask for any reinforcement!" Baza called to the driver, who was as shell-shocked as Isa.

"Taurus sent them. Said that his watchmen saw a company get rent apart." These words all but confirmed what Isa had claimed, filling Baza with suspicion and worry, but without guilt. Her psychotics only proved to fool with the minds of the heavy weapons squad with him.

"Is this all, or did that red-haired fool think that a huntsman could take on _this_ many infantry units?" Baza growled.

"Those weren't huntsmen," the driver said before the doors closed and he backed up, swerving down the road toward Beacon Academy, where no doubt more of their finite amount of infantry would deploy. There were three companies here, of the seven companies in the White Fang. Before Baza could begin another monologue, he was alerted by a booming _**CRACK**_ of lightning from behind him, and he was sent sprawling across the road as he was struck in the gut by a long staff, crackling with electricity. Baza was quick to right himself, his aura depleted to half, and the sight before him nearly had him running in the opposite direction in the spite of decades worth of training.

Standing before him, was a hulking beast of gleaming scarlet armour, accented with gold. One arm ended in a massive fist, carrying a long, golden staff, the other a growling, snarling sword with a blade that curved like a semi-circle. White robes adorned in glowing sigils clung to bulbous scarlet plate, with a menacing helmet encased within the massive torso plate, surrounded by armour.

"**Foul abhuman, surrender and I will make your death swift.**" It called through a metallic, deep grill on its helmet, sending shivers up Baza's spine, however deterred him naught. He slipped his pistol from its holster and began discharging rounds. They bounced harmlessly and uselessly off the round battle plate of the giant, and it began stomping toward him. Baza threw his pistol aside and drew his maul, charging forward with a warcry, swinging overhead.

"_**RUAAAAAAA**_-_urk_!" his cry was cut short as the rounded blade tore threw his abdomen like wet paper. He could almost hear the giant laughing before the teeth began to roar, tearing out his guts and drawing Baza into a long, agonizing screech of pain as he was ripped apart by the hungering teeth.

The scarab terminator threw the lifeless corpse of the abhuman aside and shook some of the gore off his chain-khopesh, crushing its skull beneath his boots as he treaded past.

"I have eliminated their field general, my Primarch," the Terminator called over the vox as he marched on to reunite with his brothers at the center of the city.

Some ways away, many blocks away and heading this army, Magnus the Red scythed through the battlefield with his long staff, fitted with a chain-khopesh blade and channeling arcane energies into a ball of gathering electrical discharge that the blade seemed to curve itself around, lobbing the arcane plasma bolt at the poor excuses for heavy infantry that the enemy threw at him. His lips were sealed as he struck down the pathetic warriors before him, daring naught break his concentration as he swept through the battlefield, cutting swaths of the white-masked abhumans like a sickle, his strides long and graceful as he seemed to dance across the battlefield, turning droves of enemies into naught but pools of blood and mauled corpses as his sons marched behind him, lobbing walls of boltfire downrange, sealing the fates of shifty enemies attempting to flank the great sorcerer of Prospero.

The resistance died out, and Magnus' gaze fell upon a grand facility toward the end of the city block, there sat a massive campus where the screams of civilians reached his ears loudly. The screams of women, of children, they empowered him, fueled him with rage against his enemy as he bounded forward, placing his great staff across his back in exchange for his own hands. Memories flashed before him; of swaths of gray cutting down walls of red, of the lifeless faces of civilians, rent asunder by great chain axes and swords, of his sons calling his name, wishing he would save them. The rage burned in his hearts like a grand inferno. Like those that burned the great cities.

The red cyclops charged crackling electricity into his hands and quickened his approach. Hulking two-legged machines and a small army of androids stood in his way, however they stood no chance despite their size. Magnus slowed his charge and stood still, his Astartes coming to a halt some meters behind him. A single abhuman strode forward, ahead of the army of dreadnought mechs and human-sized androids by a similar distance.

There were no words spoken, but a look was shared, one that screamed intentions to the Gods. Intentions of shedding one another's blood.

The abhuman shot forward like a bullet.

Magnus proved faster.

Magnus bound forward and met the abhuman's sword with his own staff as their armies clashed. The battle between Astartes and the abominable intelligences was one-sided by a harrowing degree in the eyes of those white-masked soldiers waiting in the rear, firing at the demi-gods of war that strode across the battlefield behind their gene-father, cutting apart steel and rending flesh. The mechs stood little chance against boltfire, digging pockmarks into armour or outright penetrating, detonating internals with soft explosions. One charged forth and thrust its massive foot down to crush a scarab terminator. The creaking of metal met the ears of its controller as the terminator was forced to kneel beneath the massive steel leg of the mech, pushing back against its might with all its own. Its brother Astartes joined it and toppled the massive war engine, where it was shredded with bolts and riven by the snarling, hungry teeth of chain-blades.

The battle between Aura and Combiweapon versus Primarch proved both less and more one-sided. It was a fight of skill as blade met blade. Taurus' short, quick swings were met by Magnus' long deflects, striking against the red blade as it struck against his great staff, teeth growling with hunger as they wished to strike against his unarmoured form. Words of taunt were kept to themselves, not daring to break their concentration for even but a half-second, knowing that it would only take that long for their opponent to land a blow most fatal. It was one-on-one combat, and whilst it was notably one-sided even with Adam Taurus' skill, Magnus didn't dare bank his victory on this fact, lest he be crushed by his own arrogance, a trait the sorcerer knew would be his end if he allowed it control. For minutes they struck at one another as the flow of scarlet warriors passed by them and soon stemmed as their numbers passed the combatants. Luck soon shone upon Magnus as he landed a stunning blow with the actual staff part of his weapon, he twirled his long weapon and swung in diagonal. Taurus rose his sword to block, but its metal proved too weak for the monomolecular teeth of the honed weapon of the 30th millennium. The abhuman's blade shattered, and the great, roaring teeth of chain took his arm in a shower of blood and cut into his face, slicing through aura as if it were made of butter.

The abhuman yet survived, utilizing a distraction of smoke pellets to retreat behind a fresh wall of fodder comprised of mechs comparable in size to a contemptor dreadnought, using their sheer bulk to throw and push back the hundred Sons of Magnus.

_Raptora_ sorcerers caught the brothers who could not catch themselves and sent out their psychic influence to reach out and crush the massive mechs. When the line of smaller, weaker mechs failed, they were replaced by the specialists wielding the strength of Aura and distinct and unique combiweapons, they knew their role and stood fast against the Sons, for which they would be respected. However, they would not be able to stop the wall of thundering boltguns, the wailing, screaming chain-blades and the unrelenting psychic power of the Sons and their gene-father.

The specialists knew it. The scarlet armoured ocean would hit them and cut through them with ease, however they would be buying their comrades precious time to escape, however futile they would not know. Their weapons, forged and master-crafted by the greatest of their blacksmiths, would prove durable as they met chain-blade, unrelenting as the teeth dug into the durable metals of their blades, even if for only a few moments. If it were one-on-one, perhaps they would stand a chance to escape a lost battle.

This was not one-on-one. This was dozens against hundreds. The specialists, the greatest of their warriors, fought admirably, but fell under the tide of _Pyrae_ flames, pierced by the tendrils of _Pavoni _energy, and were crushed beneath the psychic might of the _Raptora_, or simply rent asunder by chain-blade and bolt.

This, they realized as their bodies gave under the superior might of the warrior sorcerers of Magnus the Red, was no battle. It was a slaughter. They soon collapsed under their superior might, fighting valiantly to the end as the last of their numbers were ripped apart by monomolecular teeth and blown apart by boltgun fire, Magnus at their head. The great red cyclops of Prospero channeled an arrowhead of psychic might into his hands and blasted apart the front doors to Signal with a wave of his hands, immediately ducking into his scarab-shield as a veritable wall of gunfire pattered against his shield and greaves like rain against an umbrella.

"Shoot the one in gold!" Their cries reached Magnus' his ears, bringing a smirk to his lips, recalling orks having said similar things when fighting his father. A whisper through the minds of his sons to allow him and his terminator guards to act as vanguard had him and two of his guards charging forth, one armed with chain-khopesh, the other armed with an assault cannon and storm bolter. The line of soldiers, known as the White Fang as one of his _Athanaeans _informed him, stood behind sofas, sandbags and barbed wire, forming cover, however ineffective as his terminator escort proved. His assault cannon lit up their cover in a great flurry of bolts, his brother's storm bolter mopping up whomever remained. Magnus strode past, turning walls into piles of rubble with blasts of psychic energy, made blockades and barricades into bridges and paths of debris as they sieged Signal Academy, the hundred Sons of Magnus marching behind them to eliminate the remaining forces that made poor attempts to flank them or were missed by sheer luck. The Fang soon retreated, their rearguard comprised of piloted Atlesian mechs and poorly serviced androids, barely repaired from the fighting in Vale some months before, cut apart by weak blasts of psychic lightning, telekinetic force or melting flames.

The great sorcerer turned a corner and caught the tail of a faunus evading up a stairwell. He bound forward, only to be staggered by a condensed blast as the Fang sprang a trap, collapsing the stairs as they evaded the wrathful fist of Magnus the Red. He was having none of it, and once recovered from the concussive blast, he cast the debris aside and leapt up the stairwell, from one platform to the next, as the Fang seemed to only collapse the concrete stairs themselves, rather than the brief platforms for entering different floors. Magnus soon reached the top floor, using a massive boot to smash through the door and frame around it, late enough that he could see the escaping ships become dots in the distance, enfuriating him.

The great sorcerer allowed his rage to simmer out, giving the chance for a sigh to escape his lips, bringing a hand up to channel energies into his form, teleporting himself beside his detachment of Scarab terminator guards, waiting in a large atrium of sorts. Astartes wandered the halls of the school, _Raptora_ sorcerers reversed damages to the structure whilst the _Pyrae_ burnt the corpses of their foe and dissevered barricades untouched by the mad charge of their Primarch.

Raduriel Kyrias, Magister Templi of the _Raptora_, met Magnus outside the great doors leading into the courtyard where the slaves had been rounded up, with few of the Fang left behind by their comrades.

"The wenches have evaded my wrath," Magnus spoke to Raduriel, who nodded in response.

"For now. We will properly wipe them from the surface of this planet one day, my Primarch," Raduriel replied. Magnus nodded and whistled for a nearby tactical squad of ex-rubric marines and a five-man squad of _Athanaeans _sorcerers.

"On my word, I will teleport us into the center of the courtyard. My telepaths, you shall assault the psyche of these abhuman terrorists. Whilst they are stunned, the rest shall slay them with their boltguns," Magnus ordered, receiving nods from his loyal sons he'd summoned. With the proper information gathered from separate _Athanaeans_ sorcerers watching from above, Magnus found the spot in the middle of the yard clear, and with a _**CLAP**_ of warp lightning, the fifteen Astartes and one Primarch were in the center of the yard.

The dozen White Fang soldiers were unprepared, and soon crumpled to their knees, screaming and clasping their heads from psychic barrage from the sorcerers, whilst the ten tactical marines let loose with bolt pistols and boltguns, ending the soldiers in misty clouds of gore, as bolters were intended to do. The doors to the courtyard burst open as reinforcing Astartes leapt into the yard, forming a VIP formation around the clusters of enslaved Vale citizens, bodies atrophied from lack of food, covered in scars from lashings and utterly beaten from torment by the White Fang. Once the courtyard was confirmed to be secure, the Astartes receded back toward the doors, with Magnus at their rear, until they were able to form lines along his left and right, terminators at his sides. Magnus allowed his eye to sweep over the civilians before him, huddled together and terrified. His staff planted into the ground, and he held his hand out, using his psychic powers to project his voice.

"**Citizens of Vale! You have been subjected to nameless horrors by terrorists and traitors for too long! I declare you liberated and ask you to allow my Sons to free you and nurse your city back to health! I am Magnus the Red of Prospero, and as long as I breathe, I shall defend Remnant from Grimm, White Fang and any other threats that wish to extinguish the fire of Humanity!**" His voice boomed, inspiring hope into the hearts of the hopeless, bringing strength to the weak and smiling before the weakened slaves as their manacles and bindings were shattered by the gauntlets of tactical Astartes, melted by sorcerers of the _Pyrae_. Magnus stood for a moment longer before retreating into the school.

From the cover of a nearby roof, a security camera recorded them and their actions, broadcasting to an office somewhere in Atlas, where an agent of the late Ozpin would begin spreading this video across the continents, bringing to attention the scarlet saviours of Vale.


	3. Chapter Two (TBR)

Beneath the shattered moon, the ground cracked and tore apart, revealing great chasms, where at their bottom lay bubbling pools of dark, boiling ichor. Pools, from which emerged monsters of Grimm, mutated thrice more than the last, the warp-tainted beasts crackling with the arcane, dark energies of howling, hungering Gods who yet slumber, awaiting for their Champions to arise, awaiting for their Champions to unleash them upon the mortal plane once more, so that they may tear Remnant apart with greedy talons, where they would turn it into a festering, cracked planet filled with naught but chaos, daemons and depravity.

Emerald Sustrai looked upon this vast, terrible hellscape with half a mind to escape before those Champions could arise and turn the pleasant forests, searing deserts and frost-ridden tundras of Remnant into an infinite plane like the one before her. Partner in crime, Mercury Black, stood at her side, expressionless as his eyes gazed upon this land with hesitance and frustration.

Their attentions were cut by a single snap from their master, the once-great Cinder Fall. The Fall Maiden, Slayer of Ozpin, destroyer of Beacon Academy.

A hollowed shell that naught deserved these titles was she, Cinder Fall, who was bested by the Red Sorcerer of Prospero in the mazes of the Relic of Choice, she who only survived by the will of her Master, she who lost limbs to the Red Cyclops, she who lost the Relic, titles far more appropriate.

Arthur Watts felt this, as did the other members of the Faction. Hazel, Tyrian. Never would they dare voice this in front of Salem, but always, if the chance proved true, would they if their leader were not around. Taunting the weak, honourless wench always proved to bring joy to Tyrian and amusement to the saner of the group, save Cinder's lackeys. Arthur had taken hints as he observed them, that they revered her like a mother as well as a commander. An odd relationship indeed, but one that would inevitably prove their downfall, were she to perish.

The very forces that empowered Salem would claim their souls and turn them into the Spawn; hideous caricatures of the human form that even Watts despised, himself considered an admirer of the works of men such as Fabius Bile, a name with no face associated, but actions which spoke louder than words. He gave them an army with endless numbers, and from beyond the great Barrier that kept them from meeting and rejoicing with their Gods, created by that very wicked Sorcerer and maintained by Him, the Anathema, Fabius gave them gifts, the deadliest of Grandfather Nurgle's embraces, the strongest of pleasure-inducing and combat-enhancing narcotics from the Prince of Pleasure, Slaanesh, the raving lunacy of Tyrian itself a gift of that degenerate God, and Salem's brightness and intelligence was a gift from Tzeentch, Architect of Fate.

Watts never considered himself religious, but these Gods had sparked something in him, in all of them, a unifying force to give them the strength to destroy that great Barrier.

"You hear that? Silence. I've half a mind to thank the little girl that bested you," Watts taunted the Fall Maiden, a hand dropping his scroll into an inner coat pocket. Tyrian, ever the maniac and psychopath, tuned in.

"If I were you… I'd hunt her down… and, well…" He leaned in, smiling with manic delight.

"She took your eye, didn't she?" His cackles of lunacy reverberated off the walls, his face thrust to the sky as he laughed and bellowed, revealing the symbols of Slaanesh scarred into his flesh by hot brands, lining his neck and accented by the Script of the Gods, wards that would, one day, allow his body to become a vessel for the Neverborn.

Cinder looked as if she wanted to speak and allowed sounds of hissing and garbled speech so quiet it was unheard, to leave her mouth. That sorcerer had all but destroyed her vocal cords. Watts was sure that Tyrian longed to have been there to hear the screams that must have been made by her before they were wrought with damage irreversible by modern medicine. Sustrai took the hint and leaned in next to her master so she could relay the message Cinder could not relay herself. This brought a chuckle from Watts' thin lips as he watched in contempt.

"Pathetic. Why did you even—" his words were cut abruptly as the great wooden doors leading into Salem's holy Sanctum opened, pushed apart by hulking bipedal monstrosities in blue and gold armour, their pauldrons marking their allegiance with a serpent devouring itself. All members within the room stood in honour of their leader as she strode in, arms kept closely clasped by her waist, eyes, warped by centuries of visions of the future under the Four Gods, glaring upon those in the room with hate and disgust within them, hidden behind a guise of expressionless monotony. Her body, wrought with great scars of the eight-pointed star and the Mark of Tzeentch, and zig-zagging veins of black, revealed only by the arms, the rest hidden behind a great black and red shawl. The onyx jewels hanging from her bun-styled hair shimmered and released tinny jingles reminiscent of echoing screams. Her jaw, carved by the tearing claws of the Gods, marked by sigils and script that hurt to look at for more than but a moment.

She strode to the end of the room, admiring the soft crackles of the many candles upon the gleaming crystals built upon a stone table, before regarding the disgraced Atlesian scientist with irritation flooding her tone.

"Watts… Do you find such malignance necessary?" She turned, hiding the glowing blue mark of Tzeentch upon her back from those by standing tall and confidently, looking down upon Arthur with blankness clouding her expressions. A hand raised, a signal that allowed them to rest, and the faction took to their seats silently, save Arthur Watts, who opted to respond.

"I apologise, ma'am. I'm not particularly… _fond_ of failure," he claimed, taking his seat as Salem did the same.

"Then I see no reason for your cruelty toward young Cinder," her eyes fell upon the raven-haired maiden.

"She's become our Fall Maiden, destroyed Beacon Tower, and most importantly," Salem's mask of monotony fell as confidence oozed in replacement of her features,

"killed dear Ozpin. So, I am curious, to what failures are you referring?" Salem's glare set upon Watts, and he, admittedly, allowed a tinge of fear to influence his words.

"Well… The girl with the silver eyes—" Hazel tuned his own words in by cutting off Watts.

"Yes… we've dealt with their kind before… How is it a novice was able to best one of us?" he grumbled, arms crossed and a frown permeating his face.

"Was it not the Red Cyclops of Prospero who has taken _dear_ Cinder's arm? Her leg?" Watts questioned, frowning.

"I was unaware of the presence of this cyclops… Regardless, that girl is responsible for her eye and much of the other damage," Hazel rebutted.

"Fair… Regardless, even without her new powers, it should have been effortless." Watts stood in solidarity with the brutish man.

"It is _because_ of the Maiden's power in both cases," Salem proclaimed, turning her head to face her protégé.

"Make no mistake, Cinder. You hold the key to our victory," a smirk lit upon their leader's face, "but your newfound strength brings with it a _crippling_ weakness. Which is why you will stay by my side as we continue your treatment." Salem finished. The answer was unsatisfactory to Cinder, her face gave it away. Inwardly, Watts grinned. She was like an open book, unlike her master.

"Doctor Watts," Salem began again, prompting Watts gaze to meet hers. You are to take Cinder's place and meet with our… _informant_ in Mistral." Watts nodded.

"Very well." Salem's eyes fell upon the crazed madman, who turned with a grin of carnal joy on his face.

"Tyrian, I want you to continue your hunt for the spring maiden." Tyrian clapped his hands together and allowed a dark chuckle to escape his lips as he replied with a short 'gladly'.

"Hazel… You will meet with the leader of the White Fang. Adam Taurus has arranged the meeting… Whilst he so far proves loyal, his encounter with this… _Magnus_, has wavered this loyalty, if only slightly. Make sure he remains unwavering. Ensure that Sienna Khan is given the same treatment." This prompted but a short nod from the bulky man.

"As you wish."

Cinder rasped for a moment and held her hand up to bring Sustrai over, who was quick to interpret the message from the partial mute.

"Speak, child," Salem called to Emerald, sending an unseen shiver up her spine.

"Cinder wants to know… 'What about the sorcerer'?" A chuckle left Watts' mouth.

"What about him? It seems to me like this is Cinder's problem, not ours," he blurted out. The taunt made Cinder scowl as she slammed a fist to the table in front of her, eliciting a grin of contentedness from the man. Salem raised a hand, silencing further taunts from them both.

"That's enough. Tyrian?" Salem turned to the madman.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Spring can wait. Find the girl that did this to Cinder. Learn of her," Salem ordered, prompting a cacophony of giggles and cackles from the mad faunus.

"and bring her to me," Salem finished, souring Tyrian's mood, telling by the grumble of irritation from his voice.

"Because of your efforts," Salem spoke to the entirety of her Faction.

"Beacon has fallen, and Haven, will be next." Salem grinned malignantly, balling her hands into fists.

The group began to rise and move to exit. Tyrian turned to Cinder.

"Eye, for an eye!" He cackled and lost himself to the laughter. Cinder was disturbed, as this rejoice was not that of a madman. They were that of scheming Gods through his mouth, ones that Cinder feared, but followed regardless. His cackles bounced off the walls and into the halls of the castle, echoing endlessly for all within the Realm of Darkness.

"I'm just sayin', there's more members of JNPR on this team than RWBY. It just makes sense to go with _that_ one!" The voice of a young, orange-haired girl called to her friend as she dramatically brought her hands out in a gesture of pleading.

"But… Junior isn't a colour," came the reply of her friend, a taller, pink-streaked raven-haired boy in sage green clothes that matched the overgrown forests around them.

"Ugh! How could I be more _clear_? One," she pointed to herself, holding up one finger.

"Two," she pointed to the boy, holding up two fingers.

"Three!" She touched her index finger to her thumb, the other three held out, pointing to the blonde-haired individual ahead of them, searching amongst a log.

"That's _more_ than one," The girl's expression turned humorously dour. The boy scrunched his face in thought for a moment.

"We're helping Ruby with her objective. Wouldn't that make _her_ the leader?" he asked.

"Guys. We need to focus," came the words of the armoured blonde boy from nearby, ending their banter.

"Also, JNRR is way cooler." His interruption brought exasperation to the boy as his friend cried out loudly, "Ex-ACTLY!"

Their antics were cut off by the very earth beneath them shaking and grumbling, causing them both to stumble. The blonde boy seemed unaffected as he called to the other two.

"It's here." Soon enough, after a moment of gunfire and more earth-shaking steps, the tuft of trees ahead of them seemed to disappear as a hulking giant of red-veined stone ripped them away, attacking at a red, rose-petaled blur.

The duo behind him thrust into the trees as the blonde boy charged forth, yelling as he drew his sword. The three above him began to perform hit-and-run sorts of tactics, blasting it with grenades, peppering it with pistol rounds and pounding it with large-caliber sniper cartridges, with no effect.

They gathered onto the soft grass and cracked dirt of the newly-formed arena as the beast smashed its massive limb into the ground, sending the unarmed blonde flying back into a rock, striking him between the legs at high speeds, effectively taking him out of the fight.

"There goes Jaune! Now what?" The orange-haired girl called to her remaining teammates. Suddenly, from within the treeline, dense beams of orange light, gunfire and huge balls of glowing, crackling plasma began to throw themselves at the beast. Massive rounds exploded against its body, plasma turned cold stone into boiling lava, and beams of searing heat tore massive ravines into its hulking form.

Beyond the treeline were humans, adorned in broad, camouflage-plate armour overtop crème-coloured fatigues, belts of munitions and grenades strapped across their bodies, warpaint dotting their faces.

"Sergeant! Its face!" Jaune called, hobbling over, semi-recovered from the crippling blow to his genitalia.

"It's protecting its face! Ruby, Nora, Ren, if we can take out the limbs, we can kill it!" Jaune called to his teammates.

The tiny red-cloaked girl, Ruby, leapt into the air and used blasts from her sniper-rifle/scythe combiweapon to begin peppering the monstrosity, whilst Nora bound forth, using her hammer to smash apart the right arm of the massive beast. Jaune let out a rejoice, flipping his middle finger to the massive beast, only for it to sprout a long, black clawed arm, which it shoved into a nearby tree trunk, ripping it out of the ground, slamming it into the place where Jaune was once standing, however the boy rolled out of the way before it could crush him.

Soon, ten of the men in plate and fatigues marched out of the forest, one wielding a blocky rifle firing grenade-sized rounds that chipped away at the remaining limb of the beast, whilst two others carried bronze-barreled steel-coloured rifles that lobbed beams of melta at the thing, four more firing ever larger rounds of explosive ordnance from sniper rifles, another carried a hulking silver cannon that connected to a huge backpack upon his armor, firing massive globs of superheated plasma, one more carried a huge, underslung blocky weapon like the rifle the first carried, albeit with a huge silver drum beneath it and a significantly higher fire rate. Their sergeant charged ahead, a blocky pistol and a roaring chain-blade clasped in camouflaged gauntlets.

The beast sidestepped a glob of plasma and held up its remaining stone limb to deflect a flurry of chipping rounds, compromising the structure of the huge stone used as a forearm, allowing for Nora to shatter it and the shoulder parts with her war-hammer, before it converted to a grenade launcher. She peppered the beast with grenades as she flew back into the waiting embrace of a tree.

The last, Ren, dashed around the beast's legs, peppering them with rounds and slices with the blades at the ends of his pistols, distracting it long enough for the ten-man squad of nearby soldiers to get the hint, focusing their anti-armour weaponry onto the legs of the beast, turning one of them into molten lava, causing it to hobble for a moment before collapsing, the remaining parts still in its control falling apart as the true threat, a mask in the center of its torso, fled from the stone and flew off toward the safety of the canopy.

"I got this," Ruby called to the nearby soldiers with sniper rifles centered on the beast, raising her combiweapon, firing off a searing fire-charged round that followed the ghostly monster as it flew toward the forest, striking it in the back and causing it to cry out before a cacophony of precision bolts blew it apart further.

"Hostile neutralized!" the sergeant called it, sheathing his chain-blade and holstering his blocky pistol, turning to face the blonde boy from nearby, who sported a huge tear in his chest plate and a multitude of bruises.

"Shall we meet back at the village?" he asked Jaune, receiving a wary nod from the boy.

Sergeant Forbin Dyreson of the Amaranthine Sages, 58th Scout Company leaned against a boulder by his squadmates within a bustling village. Nearby, team RNJR/JNRR spoke with the town leader about their kill.

"So, sergeant… How long will we follow these children for?" Forbin turned to face the questioner, Carausius Kvaternik, one of two snipers on his squad; the spotter of the two.

"For as long as we must. Librarian Fraser Salvus' orders were clear; 'Follow the silver-eyed girl and protect them until they've reached the schola Haven,'" Forbin replied. He had been to this school; most of their scouts had. Within these two years that their Fortress-Monastery sat idle in the skies, no scout company had covered more ground than the Amaranthine Sages, natural explorers and cartographers the lot of them, Forbin was no different. The continent of Anima was their territory, under Scout-Captain Lorex Marguardt, the company spread far and wide, learning of the Mistralian culture, defending the towns and villages from the Warp-tainted monsters of Grimm, from those who tried to raid and pillage, thankless work that suited the scouts of the Amaranthine Sages well.

White Fang, bandit tribes, Grimm, they were reasonable threats met with the scalpel-like precision of the Scout Companies on all four land masses. The Venerable Spears fought with chain-blade and high-speed precision, the Boreal Paladins used stealth and fear to suppress and break their enemies, mopping them up with heavy-infantry. The Onyx Anvils valiantly defended civilians with mechanized infantry and the heavy Deredeo-Pattern Dreadnoughts in the urban centers across the planet. The Amaranthine Sages stood as a bulwark against the monstrous Grimm with a combination of the prior three's arsenals, defending the secluded towns from the beasts and hunting down bandit tribes indiscriminately.

Forbin's squad was notorious along the forested towns of Anima for their harsh treatment of bandits, opting to torture and paralyze them rather than allow them the sweet embrace of death, leaving them for Mistral authorities, who'd find the camps empty except for bodies of paralyzed or dead bandits, the live ones often living out their days eating through a tube in constant agony. For it, they were feared by those unlawful few, and respected by the secluded civilians living in the far-spread villages, finding no sympathy for the lawless who pillaged their towns, raped their women and slew their men, leaving behind those too weak to fight for the Grimm.

Whilst Forbin's work was noble, and hardly thankless, but he made sure his scouts were kept humble. It was the least they could expect from their sergeant.

Forbin's internal monologue was broken by the sounds of footsteps, and he glanced up to find the four members of JNRR/RNJR approaching him, a freshly rearmed Jaune at their head.

"Thanks for the help, sergeant Dyreson," Jaune said to the Astartes-in-training, holding out a satchel containing a quarter of their earnings from the slaying of the Geist. Dyreson shook his head and refused the satchel.

"It was the least we could do. Really, I should thank you. Were it not for your team, we'd spend another month on the defense against that monster," he replied, smiling to him. It was a half-truth, they knew of the creature's weakness and were but waiting for it to appear again, however the young Huntsmen in training had indeed sped up the process of hunting the monster down.

"Is there _any_ way we could repay you?" Jaune asked, to which a lightbulb popped on in Dyreson's mind.

"Earlier, you said your group was heading to Mistral. Allow us to come with you. My men and I are in dire need of a change of scenery. With the death of the Geist, this town is without threats," Dyreson responded, to which Ruby chimed in.

"Of course! On one condition, though," she began, eyes gliding over to the sniper rifle in the arms of Carausius. Forbin had a vague notion of what this girl was getting at, considering her own arsenal.

"Name it, my dear girl."

"Teach me how your weapons work, 'cus they're so cool!" She began to squeal in an innocent, childish way about their armaments, drooling over Brother Michal Lipira's plasma cannon, gawking at Quietus' own standard scout-issue sniper rifle and staring at Domitianus Ironfang's Heresy-era drum-fed Heavy Bolter. This elicited a laugh from the sergeant.

"A reasonable request. It shall be. When do you set out?" Dyreson asked, prompting a response from Jaune.

"Well, once we've restocked our ammo and rations, we'll be off to Shion, so within the day, hopefully," Jaune replied.

"I suppose introductions are in order. You know of mine already, in case you forget, it is Forbin Dyreson. Behind me, the two with the sniper rifles are Quietus and Carausius. Ironfang is the one with the drum-fed weapon. The one with plasma cannon is Lipira,. The one with the standard bolter rifle is my close friend, Leonatos Vandilus, the two with the meltaguns are Malik Dardashti and Calistro. The three with shotguns are Ezequiel, Callen and Gaelos." Forbin said, introducing each of the nine scouts under his command.

"Nice to meet you all! I'm Ruby, the tall blonde over here is Jaune, the girl with the grenade-launcher-hammer is Nora, and this is Ren!" Ruby introduced, zipping between each member as she said their names, a beaming smile upon her features.

"You as well, Miss Ruby. I believe we will have the most interesting trip," Dyreson said with a chuckle as the ten scouts and four Huntsmen/Huntresses fraternized with one another.


	4. Chapter Three (TBR)

Wispy clouds sailed through the air beside the sky-faring warships and civilian airships as they were blown across the sky, a veil of whites and grays from which the towering cityscape of Atlas peeked out from, the lights of the city barely penetrating the encompassing shroud of snow.

Within her room, Weiss Schnee sat, watching airships as they streaked above that blanket of concealment which hid the city far below. The window was frosted in its corners, the crackling of the fireplace on the far-side of the room being her only respite from the freezing cold. A scowl adorned her face as she sat upright at the window upon a simple chair.

Bitterness and sorrow had become her friends in these trying times. Weiss mourned the loss of her friend, Blake. She presumed her dead—the battle of Beacon Academy had left the girl scarred, a shadow of her former self, an overused but apt term to describe Blake. Weiss had been torn away by her tyrant of a father, who had been scrying, declaring that she would be safer from the supposed wars to come in Atlas. It infuriated her, this ignorance he held—she was a warrior, damn him! The world burned and anarchy reigned, yet here she sat, trapped in this noble prison like a caged animal.

A sigh escaped her lips. Anger blinded her at times. The world did in fact burn—for quite a long time, however as of now, it was simmering, ashen but not alight as it was when Beacon fell. Tensions were high, that much she could garner from the little contact she got with the outside world. Tales from Klein of how he was nearly assaulted in the street by some frightful civilian, figuring him for a mugger or some violent thug.

The door to her room creaked. Weiss turned her gaze from the endless blizzard outside her high window to the noise, finding Klein poking his head in. He gave her a small smile.

"May I come in?" Weiss gave a nod to the inquiry. The portly man entered the room, gently shutting the door behind him. There was a look of… almost pity, on his face for only the briefest of moments. He was like a puppy, Klein, always with a sad look in his eyes, however always smiling. No wonder, Weiss figured.

The man had been around to watch her mother's fall from grace and her father's rise. There was no place for joy in such a foul estate, her brother a licentious goblin with ambitions of taking her father's place, groomed for it after Weiss left, she figured. Her father was worse—a corporate snake in a suit with a silver tongue and a mind for politics, but ever paranoid and delusional. Her mother… her mother was little more than a shell after all these years. She sat in the garden and drank more than she did anything else. A bitter fate for an aspiring woman as her mother.

Weiss did not speak as he approached, only turning her gaze back to the storm of ice and frost outside. She had no words for him—not out of disrespect, mind you, rather out of a lack of words to speak. She had seen horrors at Beacon Academy and her personality, her psyche itself had suffered. The horrors of Mankind brought to bear, though she stood the line in defense of the innocent, it had changed her, for the worse. Klein stared out into the frigid pane, standing beside her.

"There's a beauty to it. Nature, that is," Klein said after a pregnant pause of silence. He turned his head to face the girl beside him. "I can see why you would want to admire it, though I don't think you're sitting here alone to observe nature."

"Is that why you came in here? To ridicule me for enjoying some peace and quiet?" Weiss' face was permeated by a frown. Klein chuckled at the cold attitude of the young huntress.

"No, not to ridicule. Far from it…" Klein's expression softened, "you have grown distant since your return. Even when you're out of your room, it's like you're not really there. I worry about you, Weiss. That is all," Klein replied, placing an affirming hand on her shoulder. Guilt plagued the girl for her lukewarm attitude and her own face lost its harsh tone. A sigh left her as she stared out into the wintry expanse.

"I had friends at Beacon. People I could call family. Now, they're either spread out across the world or… gone." Thoughts of her comrades, her friends, came to mind. Ruby. Blake. Yang… Pyrrha. It felt ridiculous to think that as little as a year ago, they were all still whole and alive. Heartache touched her and Weiss allowed a tear to fall from her face. A hand came to wipe it as it streaked down her cheek, the smiling face of Klein greeting her.

"I may not have been a huntsman, but I was a soldier in my youth… I lost friends to the worst kinds of wars that Remnant has seen. I understand your loss, my little snowflake… I'll give you some space. Just know that even here, you are not alone." His words brought a weak smile to Weiss' features and she smiled.

"Thank you, Klein." The butler made his exit and Weiss allowed the smile to slowly fade as her gaze fell once more to the cold skies of Atlas.

* * *

Scout-Sergeant Sisenna Barbatus was a man of principle. He was an Astartes—principle came with the title, as did pragmatism. More so, Sisenna Barbatus was a man with a hatred for the corrupt. Perhaps it was from his years in the latter half of the Great Heresy followed by the abrupt departure of the II into the Warp and witnessing all the horrendous abominations that were once men, nay, _once Astartes_. Perhaps it could have been a trait inherited from his past—from those early years in his life where he witnessed the true horror of corruption and decadence.

It was neither here nor there in any case. What was, at the present moment, _here_, was his objective; Jacques Schnee. A man of unrivaled greed and sin, he disgusted Sisenna to his core. The scout-sergeant had been tracking the ruler of the 'Schnee Dust Company' for the past few months, finding out what he could upon infiltrating the ranks of the butlery and servants of the estate. What he found, was a sinful man who lusted for money and profit. An intelligent one, unfortunately.

Unfortunate for Sisenna, at least. Finding proper 'dirt' (as it were) on the man was proving difficult, he kept his secrets close to the chest and everyone not within his inner circle at arm's reach. Sisenna was sure he'd find a way—he had faith, as a member of the _Palades Borealis_, that meant the Imperial Cult variant of faith… and soon that faith in his God-Emperor would reward him.

Walking toward the office he currently stood in front of was a man Sisenna had marked as 'General James Ironwood.' A man of considerable status among Atlas, debatably one of the most influential governmentally. Sisenna had no issue straightening himself and offering a humble greeting to the man.

"General Ironwood, sir, it is good to see you. Have you a meeting with mister Schnee?" The greeting prompted a nod from the aging general.

"Yes, yes I do, Cobalt," the general replied. 'Cobalt' nodded and opened the door for the general, before closing it behind him. He would search the bug in the office for valuable information later—Sisenna had other matters to attend to. He turned to his right and started off down the corridor, around the same time as a certain ice queen would come around the corner.

Sisenna passed through the Victorian mansion-estate, silent as he walked. Sisenna was scant toward his admiration of the estate, it lacked the gothic charm of Imperial architecture, though it held resemblance. The vanity at display with the various mazes of winding rooms and hulking statues was sickening to the scout-sergeant. His origin was of humility, being in such regal attire in such an over-the-top building was appalling to him… however, it was Morrerian himself who gave the order and Sisenna wouldn't _dare_ sully the Chapter Keeper's honour in such a humiliating manner as refusing such a simple order. Their chapter was one of swordsmen, assassins and clandestine operatives. Watching a man sit around with one foot up his arse was child's play.

He arrived in the library, his destination. From there, he moved silently to the second story of the towering section of the mansion. Bookshelves containing centuries of lore and tomes of Remnant's past lined the walls up to the ceiling, easily as tall as the length of two thunderhawks stacked from nose-to-thruster.

A balcony stared at him as he passed the spiraling stairwell to the second floor, where a specific bookshelf, carrying a specific tome was waiting to be opened. Distinct from the others yet well-hidden, it was a cookbook, however the cookbook of the apparent population of an island that never once had settlers upon it. Upon tugging the book from its place, a latch released, and the bookshelf came loose, allowing it to be pulled out. Waiting for him behind it, was a full-fledged battle-brother, adorned in artificer-plate and wielding a stalker bolter with a power gladius strapped to his hip, a cameleoline cloak draped around his broad pauldrons and power pack, drooping to show the '77' company was cycled down to low-power, allowing for silent movement, albeit quite slow movement. The Astartes' beaked Corvus-pattern helmet bowed in acknowledgement of the scout.

"It is good to see you, brother Quintis."

"God-Emperor willing, I've done as Chapter-Keeper Morrerian has asked. Atlas has moved to block the SDC from exporting Dust in large quantities—likely hoarding it for their own use. Local White Fang presence has disrupted several operations of the SDC in recent months as well—the mutant filth are scheming," Sisenna reported to the ceramite-clad battle brother, who nodded.

"Any word of the cyclops?" Quintis adjusted his grip on the stalker bolter. Sisenna shook his head in response to his fellow astartes.

"Nay. What we _have_ heard are mumblings and vague reports but only that," Sisenna replied.

"Understood, scout-sergeant. Continue your work but be wary. The Emperor protects." Quintis stiffened for a moment.

"You were followed. Human, female. Auspex picked it up. We shall reconvene later, now _**go.**_ You cannot blow your cover now," Quintis said before disappearing back into the dark corridor behind the bookshelf. Sisenna quickly closed the shelf, retrieving a book and flipping to a random page. He swore to himself—he was a scout-sergeant, not some measly neophyte. He should not have allowed himself to be followed, damn it. Moments later, Weiss Schnee rose to the same floor, observing Sisenna with curiosity.

"Cobalt, what're you doing up here?" The girl had a curious look upon her face as she stood before 'Cobalt.' The disguised scout shrugged idly.

"I was getting a cookbook for the master chef," 'Cobalt' replied, giving the girl a smile and pointing to the cover of the book, only to prompt a frown.

"That's not a cookbook," Weiss retorted with crossed arms. Sisenna turned the cover over and chuckled after reading the words 'KITTEN'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE' on the front, clapping the book shut and slipping it into the bookshelf, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

"Okay, well maybe I stopped to glance at a title that caught my eye," he admitted falsely. His act was good enough to convince the huntress, who dropped the frown and shook her head at his antics before taking her leave after a long pause of hesitation. Sisenna let out a nigh-silent breath of relief and turned to hide deeper in the library for a time until the huntress was gone.

* * *

Weiss Schnee left the library and made for her father's office. That Cobalt was an oddball to be sure, but she felt no malice in the boy so left him be. She remembered him as the new addition to their staff, a young one to be sure but certainly a reliable one from her experience. No harm done leaving him to enjoy a book, Weiss decided.

The icy scenery around her was ignored by the girl as she shuffled down the hallway, reaching her father's office, quietly slipping in. Weiss recognized the voice of the man who argued with her father behind a perceived closed-door—James Ironwood.

"We're _all_ suffering from this, Jacques. Bigger things than you and your money are at play and you must understand that!" Ironwood sternly asserted, only to receive a snort and a snarling response.

"This is tyrannical, Ironwood! Your embargo has costed me enough as is, but _this_ is borderline. Even for _you_," Weiss' father said, accenting his speech by jamming his finger against his desk pointedly. The office around them was lavish, with a pair of sofas in the center in front of a raised section of the floor where Jacques' desk was, a grand liquor cabinet situated behind it from the most expensive woods that could be afforded. A long gun was mounted on the wall, but Weiss knew it was functionally useless—the trigger mechanisms were missing and the trigger that was on the gun had been welded there. She could see it plain as day.

"You're being dramatic, Jacques. Regardless, I didn't come here to argue policy, I came here to warn you. _Someone_ has their eye on you," Ironwood explained. This prompted a chuckle from Jacques.

"Oh? Someone has an eye on _me_? Shouldn't you be off worrying about that security breach at Mantle, not with poking me with your alarmism?" Jacques had a smarmy grin, only for it to be wiped away as Weiss clicked the door shut behind her.

"We'll continue this conversation later…" Ironwood said to Jacques, a frown permeating his features before he turned to Weiss.

"Miss Schnee, I apologize, I've overstayed my welcome," Ironwood said, stopping next to her on his way out.

"Know that you'll always have a home at Atlas Academy. We'll be in session before you know it," he finished. He was soon greeted by none other than Cobalt, who had returned to his post.

"Cobalt will see you out," Jacques spat with acid in his voice. Ironwood shrugged it off and followed the disguised scout-sergeant out. The Schnee patriarch shook his head with annoyance once the door clicked shut.

"Did you forget your manners while you were away?" Weiss' father asked, drawing her attention from the closed door. Weiss took in a breath and stepped forth, toward her tyrannical father.

"No father, I am sorry." She walked over in front of her father's desk, where Jacques retreated once Ironwood was long away.

"Can you believe there are still people in the world that blame Atlas for what happened to Beacon? To Vale?" He asked, as if dumbfounded. Ignorant, as Weiss would put it.

"They weren't there," Weiss replied coldly. They didn't see the buildup to the grand deception that led to Ironwood's androids turning on the civilians. Nobody saw the pieces of the puzzle making a shape until the puzzle was complete. Nobody saw the White Fang unleashing Grimm unto the school and Vale… Nobody saw them dragging civilians off to prison camps. Nobody saw them ripping mothers from their children so that they could _appease_ the hungering lust of the grunts. Nobody saw them lining up those same women with their children and their husbands to be shot, or worse.

"It's a wonder Ironwood wasn't stripped of his rank," Jacques complained, rolling his eyes as he turned to face the grand painting of himself on the wall behind the desk.

"I suppose the council trusts him… _for better or for worse_." Weiss frowned inwardly at her father's words.

"I trust him." She could all but feel his eyes rolling as he spun to face her, a glint in his eye as he spoke filling Weiss with suspicion.

"Thanks to him, Atlas is forbidden from exporting Dust to other Kingdoms. "A precautionary measure", as he puts it, "until we're certain no one is going to declare war". How anyone could possibly find that to be sound logic is beyond me," Jacques began, sipping the liquor in the iced glass in his hand.

"And _now_, he's demanding we donate 2% _more_ of our Dust production to his '_military_' operating to catch a bunch of rogue huntsmen. Bah!" He growled.

"_Because_ of the former of those, the Schnee Dust Company will be holding a charity concert in the coming weeks," Jacques explained. Weiss was pleased and… surprised to hear the word 'charity' come out of her father's mouth.

"We need to show the people of Remnant that we are on their side. That we are all victims of the fall of Beacon," Jacques began.

"That's... wonderful news!" Weiss tried to remain optimistic…

"Which is why think it would make a lot of people happy if you performed at the event." Those words showed Jacques intentions, clear as day. He was buttering her up, yet again.

"Pardon?" Weiss clarified, hiding her seething behind clenched teeth and balled fists.

"Many forget that you were there. My own daughter, a Schnee, on the grounds, defending another Kingdom! We need to remind them! And we need to show them that the Schnee family is just as strong as ever!" He stood, balling his own fist, albeit for a different effect than Weiss. She paused for a moment.

"Are you _asking_ me to sing or _telling me_?" Weiss asked, calming her nerves a bit with a breath of the cold air that circulated through the room. Her father did not glorify that with an answer.

"I think it would make a lot of people happy." Weiss, for but a second, thought about arguing, however she knew that regardless of her points, she would be performing, and a sigh signaled her giving up.

"I'll start practicing," she submitted, earning a smirk from Jacques.

"That's my… girl," he said as she walked out, into the corridor, winding as it was. Jacques sighed to himself. That girl was trouble…

* * *

The docks of Patch were alight with activity in the late hours of the afternoon. Ships docked and undocked, cargo was loaded and unloaded, visitors were packed onto ships as they had their fill and tourists stood beside the cruise ships they came on as crewmen unloaded their cargo, but most notable of all was the hulking figure, inspecting ships and taking notes on a large, bulky scroll, less of a scroll and more of a slate.

Sergeant Flavius Sepurcius was no stranger to this sort of work. Though no Boreal Paladin, he was certainly adept at the clandestine work required of him by the Legion, though he was irate at being bereft of his armour and his bolter. Nothing was more sacred than a Vigilator's stalker bolter and they took it from him! All he had was his combat knife and his rations, though he supposed it was all he needed for gathering information.

Though definitely not the only one assigned to the task, he was certainly one of the most proactive. Flavius strode over to another ship; a cargo vessel with its serial number and identification tags plastered across her starboard bow. Large and certainly spacious enough. He wrote down the numbers and ID onto his data-slate.

'_Should be the last one for the day… now just to make the journey across the island._' Flavius' thoughts were interrupted as his eyes caught onto a bizarre sight. A blonde-haired girl, adorned in simple civilian clothes, making a poor attempt of a stakeout. Moving around, reading newspapers and glancing at him over the top, inspecting fruits sold by vendors. If it weren't so obviously suspicious and under better circumstances, he'd find humour in it.

Flavius _did_ find humour in the startled look the girl gave him once he stared her down. Letting out a chuff of air through his nose, Flavius feigned ignorance, then turned from the docks and trotted down the cobblestone road, away from the salty shore air and toward the actual island in its entirety.

He glanced down at his data-slate as he walked, going over his orders once more in his head. The Adamantine Sage legionnaire passed through the port town quietly, stashing away his data-slate within his hip satchel after double-checking he had everything written down that needed to be down. It was a pleasant town he supposed—for the technological level this civilization had, at least. The buildings were constructed from modern materials, though they had an odd clash with red clay-shingled roofs and simple white exteriors.

Seagulls dotted the skies and civilians moseyed about in the streets, mostly ignoring or outright avoiding him. Not the best look when one was trying to sneak about, though he wouldn't dwell on it.

The girl continued to follow him, however, which he would dwell on. Though he had no doubts toward his own combat prowess, he had doubts toward hers. There was an odd trait to the warriors of this world, making them akin to witches in nature. It was something he could not risk dealing with, however weak their psionic tricks may be and so he left it be. She would get what was coming once they were out of town.

* * *

Yang swore quietly as the towering stranger spotted her and made direct eye contact. She was probably found out, though her panic subsided when he blew out his nose and seemingly ignored the stare. Must not have a lot of brains, that one, Yang figured. Hoped, really. He left the area and Yang went back to tailing him.

The man had shown up a few days ago from a boat, a military ship, an Atlas one no less. Yang had caught him while walking through the port town recently, which immediately caught her suspicion. It left as soon as it came, and the man would simply wander around town then disappear at night.

It rubbed Yang in all the wrong ways, so she decided to investigate by tailing the guy around. Mostly, he had been taking notes on ships, which was weird. Maybe he was in the Navy?

Yang put her thoughts aside as the man left town, following a dirt road into the forests. She stopped in her tracks and stared for a moment. Something was off about him, she could feel it, but that instinct in her gut that kept her out of a lot of losing battles was acting up. She hesitated for a minute longer, then growled to herself. She was Yang Xiao Long, dammit, she always got into those losing fights! Usually came out on top… sometimes. Didn't matter though.

She went back to following the giant, trekking into the heavily wooded forest behind him. He was just in her line of sight, though she stayed far enough back so he didn't notice. Birds chirped and the sounds of the forest grew louder as the crashing of waves, gawking of birds and idle chatter of the port town were replaced by the soft swaying of trees, rustling of bushes and idle noises of the Patch wildlife. For a moment, it consumed the girl. She usually took the less-wooded roads that were paved for the sake of ease. It was rare to see nature in its—

Yang stopped. The stranger was gone, but she was still walking. He had not picked up speed, just… vanished. Yang put up her guard and listened to her surroundings. Where'd he go? There was silence for the longest time, before the sounds of birds and the swaying of trees came back into focus. She had lost him.

Yang swore to herself, looking up at the sky. She had spent most of the daylight hours tracking that guy, only to lose him. Shaking her head, Yang retreated back down the dirt road, annoyed.

Nearby, the Vigilator dropped down from the tree he had hidden in after he was sure the girl had gone. He held back a snicker. It had taken him a century to master that trick and he had no regrets for it. Flavius continued down the road as the hours of the day began to wane, a smirk on his face and a hand on his knife. He had a job to do.


	5. Chapter Four (TBR)

The sun sat high in the sky above Menagerie as Blake walked through its crowded streets. Men and women, faunus of all kinds, packed the roads, sitting on the stairs to their homes and enjoying the sun. Vendors sold their wares from stalls along the dock to sailors and any passersby gullible enough to buy their goods… there was an air of peace in the midday, though it was tense. People stared at the newcomers with fearful or hateful expressions. They avoided them. It was off.

Blake felt mixed about this place. There was a beauty to its simple lifestyle, it lacked the industrial pollution of the rest of the world and there was a feeling of community that she admired, but at the same time it stood as a monument to her failures, _no_, to the failures of the White Fang, of her people. A monument to their oppression.

It was made none the better by the flocks of migrating people, pushed out of their homes as retribution for the destruction of Vale by the White Fang. Blake shuddered even considering the thought of bringing up those old memories.

They had turned the city of Vale into a territory. Its council was pushed out of the capital city and its already meagre military battered and beaten into submission. Blake had vivid memories of it, ones that haunted her at night and did not go away unless she drank. The atrocities she had witnessed followed her wherever she went. Blake shook her head of the thoughts as she made her way through the street, focusing once more on what Sun said to her.

"… funniest stuff I've ever seen, gotta tell you, Blake!" Sun finished—at least Blake assumed he finished—his story, giving Blake a stupidly large grin before realizing she'd spaced on him for most of it.

"You didn't hear a word of that, did you?" he asked dejectedly. Blake sighed and shook her head.

"No, Sun, I didn't. I got lost for a minute there," she replied. Sun frowned in mild irritation before perking up. Blake, meanwhile, froze in place, staring at something off in the distance.

"I'll just start over! So there was this scientist—" Blake cut him off with a hand motion.

"Sun, look!" Blake pointed at a towering structure in the distance. Sun squinted at it for a moment.

"It's a flag. Looks like a bird with two heads… Wow, that's a big house." Blake groaned at his ignorance and took off toward the house, Sun yelling before following after her. Voices became clear as Blake got closer. The banner above the house—_her_ house—was fluttering loudly in the wind. She stopped in her tracks as she got close, a gasp dying on her lips.

Outside her home were tents, dozens of them, with the similar two-headed eagle banner hanging above each. Bulky, odd and presumedly Atlesian knights bearing white pauldrons marked by a red symbol moved between tents, aided by locals or humans in bizarre uniforms.

Blake closed the distance and found that they were not knights—they were _giants_ in armour, tending to injured Faunus and other giants. They were often overseen by one in green armour covered in scaled hides, bizarrely having lit braziers built upon the huge packs on their backs or otherwise being somehow on fire in one way or another.

"Woah…" Sun stared in awe of the giants, all of them between seven and eight feet of height. Blake was in a similar state, though it did not stop her from continuing toward her family home. Among those giants, Blake could feel emotion, stronger than any other emotion she had felt among any other human or Faunus. There was passion, but there was also rage. A fueled hate that could not be put to words it was so intense.

Blake climbed the stairs to reach the door and hesitated for a moment. It had been an exceptionally long time since she had seen her parents. She could not even begin to wonder how they would react. Would they be angry with her? Disappointed? Her mind raced at the possibilities. Thankfully, the door opened before she could get the chance to hesitate any longer.

Standing there, her head wrapped in gauze, was Blake's mother. Blake stood stock still as she made eye contact with her mother.

"Blake? Is… Is that you?" Her mother broke the silence after a long moment of silence. Blake nodded hesitantly as she broke from her stupor.

"Y-Yeah, mom, it's me, I—" Blake was cut off as her mother embraced her tightly.

"Oh my God, we thought you had died in the fighting at Vale! W-When the CCT went down there was just chaos!" Her mother cried into her shoulder, Blake hugging back. Sun stood beside them, watching the reunion with a genuine smile.

"Isn't that precious." Blake's vision was drawn to a hulking form behind Blake's mother, nearly making the girl jump. He was akin to the other giants, though he did not wear a helmet. His armour was wrapped in robes and leather gloves covered his massive gauntlets. His eyes glowed, imbued with some psionic energy that sent shivers of terror down Blake's spine that she swiftly ignored.

"O-Oh, Blake, you must be so confused, come in, bring your friend. I'll make tea. There's a lot to talk about I'm sure," Blake's mother interjected after calming herself and wiping her eyes. Blake eventually accepted her mother's proposal after a moment of consideration, Sun following behind her to enter the house.

It was _nothing_ like it once was, that was for sure. Hanging from the rafters were red banners, sporting that golden bird, though there were also other banners, marked with a shield upon it. A helmet was over the shield, two crossed spears behind the helmet, with a knightly visage of an angled lower helmet with two raging eyes, staring forward vigilantly, ringed by a chaplet of gold leaves, the numerals 'II' beneath the helmet in bold font. The walls had been plated in dense metallic reinforcements; the windows barred with seemingly only one entrance. It had an oppressive feeling, so defensive and lacking the artistic and civilian charm of the home that once was, replaced by pragmatic military structure.

Blake followed her mother into the next room, where she found her father communicating with another of the giants, nearly matching his height. The giant had a knightly helmet like the one on the banner, sporting a long, angular face-grill that peeked over the forehead, leaving only those harsh, rage-filled lenses, a deep green colour. On his hip was the longest sword Blake had seen, some illegitimate child between a chainsaw and a broadsword, with a stout, blocky gun clamped to his opposing thigh.

Her father was just as beaten and bruised as her mother; more so it seemed, his body covered in fresh scars and one eye pale and glassy, half his face uneven and rough from half-healed burn scars. There was a dimness to him, a graying edge to his hair and his beard, a sullen, almost hopeless look in his eyes, however it seemed to leave him as his eyes caught Blake.

"Blake? Oh my God," her father immediately rushed to her and brought her in for a crushing bear-hug. Blake was overwhelmed. She had not expected such a relief to come to her when she saw her parents again, but there it was, like a wave crushing her prior doubts. It did not help her father was turning her spine to dust.

"Ack—dad, you're—crushing—" He came to his senses and let his daughter down. She coughed as he chuckled softly, hugging her more gently.

"With everything that Kuo Kuana has been through… I did not think I would see you again…" Her father mumbled as he embraced his daughter. A cleared throat from behind him drew his attention.

"We'll talk more later… Have you spoken to your mother yet? Yes? Good, well I am sure she is going to want to make some tea. I have some business to attend to but once I am finished, I shall join you. I will explain everything, I promise." His words were heeded, and Blake nodded, displeased at the feelings that continued to assault her senses. There was this exclusion, but also this inherent fear—this unrelenting terror or an indescribable rage that consumed just about everyone she came across. Something was incredibly wrong with Kuo Kuana and Menagerie. She would get answers, Blake affirmed to herself.

She took a seat in the next room, which was relatively untouched by the dark metallic reinforcing walls and lack of culture as the rest of the house, retaining the old look of the house that Blake so fondly recalled. Wood paneled walls and a spartan simplicity without becoming so violently pragmatic like the rest of the house.

Blake sat at one of the seats alongside Sun, who had remained silently in awe the duration of the trip and waited while her mother prepared tea…

* * *

The smell of smoke and burnt, rancid odor of corpses refused to leave her nostrils as Glynda Goodwitch stood atop the shattered remnants of Beacon Tower, its roof blown asunder and Ozpin's office turned to a mess.

Vale had been ruined by the White Fang. The Huntsmen and Huntress teams had been vastly overwhelmed against the threat of the Grimm, the White Fang and the turncoat Atlesian knights and paladins. The city burned and once the White Fang had defeated the huntsmen, they were rounded up, put to labour camps and forced to work. Glynda shed a tear as her mind raced, considering those who'd been lost in the last months before the arrival of the red giant who now stood beside her, silently gazing out upon the ruins of the city, pillars of smoke continuing to rise from the ashes with the occasional discharge of bolt weaponry ringing out.

"I don't know how we can thank you for what you've done," Glynda said after a pregnant pause, breaking past the anxiety of speaking that had come from standing beside this… _entity_. This giant among giants, easily dwarfing the huntress.

"**Your thanks, though appreciated are unnecessary. We are merely repaying a debt.**" His voice echoed in her mind like a beating drum.

"**My sons will aid in the repair and restoration of Vale. We will replenish our munitions and tie up any loose ends in the city, then we will leave.**" Glynda's heart fell for a moment, but she steadied herself. She was a huntress, damn it. However dire the situation, they would rebound from this.

"**More will come. I taught them well when they were still my surrogates…**" his voice trailed off as his mind wandered for a moment. He came back after a short sigh, memories having been brought to fore.

"**They will treat your civilians kindly and will assist in rebuilding Vale. They harbour with them a grudge against me for crimes I've committed. When they come, the Sentinels will demand to know the location of the Cyclops of Prospero. Tell them I marched for Haven. Do you understand?**" Magnus turned to face Glynda, his single eye staring into her very being. It took all her willpower to simply nod. Her mind came to a sudden realization after a second of thought.

"Ozpin… did he have something to do with _any_ of this?" Glynda had her theories, only cemented when Magnus looked down at her with a subtle smirk upon his features.

"**Ozma has something to do with most things… but yes. I will divulge you this: Ozma is an old friend… he reminds me of my wayward brother.**" Magnus nodded to one of his captains behind him, adorned in glimmering Maximus-pattern armour, refurbished from some looted Imperial armoury and painted in the old colours of the legion.

"**Return Glynda to Vale, I am assigning you as her liaison until the preparations are complete for our departure, my son. Do not fail me.**" Magnus' orders rang out through the hall. The Astartes captain nodded and turned to Glynda.

"If you are ready, we shall depart. One of the sorcerers of the _Athenaeans _has made a discovery of a White Fang stronghold that contains many of the combi-weapons of your Huntsmen," the captain spoke to her softly. Glynda nodded after a moment and followed him down the elevator, leaving Magnus to dwell on his thoughts.

"**Oh, brother, how far we've come… Your servant's triumvirate reflects so much on you.**" Magnus sighed heavily. This world was a virgin to the horrors of the galaxy. He knew it would not stay this way long, though he hoped against it. The forces of Chaos would turn this land barren and deprive it of its innocence, another daemon world to add to their clutch.

The Primarch stood stock as his memories flared. All the times he had been tricked, fooled like a child into committing such atrocities and vile acts… all the betrayals, all the death he had caused. Turned against his own father, his brother turned against _him_. Burned his world to the ground… then to do so brazenly do the same to Leman…

"**Never again.**" Magnus focused his psyche and sent out a message to his warriors; he would be taking a squad of scarab terminators and moving to clear out a White Fang stronghold on the coast.

With that, he turned and took the elevator to the ground floor, channeling psychic energies through his body as he waited, getting a feel for the energies of Remnant. The purity of the energy itself was odd—welcome, were it not so suspicious. His psychic abilities were more potent, as were those of his other sorcerers. The normally tumultuous waves of the Warp were calmer, muted, yet so much stronger at the same time.

The elevator hit the first floor and Magnus departed, uniting with the scarab terminators, materializing his signature Blade of Ahn-Nunurta, recovered and refurbished. After gathering the whereabouts of the stronghold, Magnus took off with the terminators in tow.

* * *

Kali Belladonna sighed softly as she sipped her tea. Blake and Sun sat across from her, morbidly eager to know the fate of Kuo Kuana. She could not understand why, though she supposed it was her growing bitterness and cynicism coming to bite her.

"If you recall, the night of the Vytal Festival all those years ago, there was a meteor shower. A big one, unscheduled. Maybe you were too busy studying and training to know of it, but it came on the night of the festival. A lot of those meteors landed on Menagerie, across the desert. The White Fang sent almost all their people out to the desert on sleds to go investigate, then they just didn't come back for months. We thought they'd died!" Kali paused to sip her tea. Blake was intently listening, hanging onto her every word, whilst Sun did the same. Their faces soured at mention of the White Fang. Kali could not bring herself to fully blame them.

"After a while, we had given up hope, then out of nowhere, they came back with these soldiers—the ones you saw outside and talking to your father. They call themselves the 'Venerable Spears' part of some legion, your father knows more about them than I do. Regardless, they came back, and the White Fang leadership went _nuts_. Said a bunch of crazy stuff before your father put them into place. A little while after that, they began going crazy with the propaganda, calling them invaders, warning people that they're here to rape their wives and steal their children. All sorts of crazy," Kali explained. Blake frowned softly. Something did not make sense, mostly due to the fact that the White Fang were not often this brash and straightforward about matters like those… however she knew someone who was.

"Mom, do you have any idea why they would act so… brazen? So… so—" Blake was suddenly cut off as the door opened.

"Foolish? Alarmist? Idiotic?" Ghira frowned softly and sighed as he entered the room, sitting beside his wife.

"No. Captain Vopiscus said the Spears had an idea, but they refused to tell," Ghira said with annoyance in his voice. Blake turned to her father.

"Dad… who are these people? And what did they do to our house? Why are they everywhere and why are they armed?" Blake rapid-fire shot questions at her father.

"One question at a time. Please… to answer your first question, they're called the Venerable Spears. They are a… chapter of a much larger force that has existed in isolation deeper inland. As to what they've done to the house…" Ghira sighed as memories sprang back up to his mind.

"Once the Venerable Spears arrived, the White Fang became… off. They were panicky. Secretive. It gets worse… they became like a cult. Accusing people of being traitors to the cause for minor disagreements over policy. 'Heresy' against the 'church' as it were… They got violent after that. Extremely violent, and as soon as they saw me as a threat when I stepped out of line, they attacked. There had to have been dozens of them, Blake… we lost so many people. They rampaged through the streets, rallying whoever would join them or killing anyone who stood against them. They burned down a lot of homes closer inland. It was as if they'd been possessed with this… frenzying rage…" Ghira sipped at the tea his wife had placed in front of him as the memories, seared into his mind, came screaming back at him like missiles.

"It was not the White Fang I had known. It was something else… They carried banners with symbols that hurt to look at. Performed rituals in the streets… When I had enough, I gathered the guards and I fought… but it was little use. We were demoralized by what we had seen and they had numbers I can't even fathom to guess at. We retreated back to the house. They followed with firebombs, guns, huntsmen even… The house burned for so long. Kali and I… we…" he trailed off as his wife leaned on his arm and squeezed it, the memories coming back to her in waves as they did him. Just seeing her parents like this… it broke Blake, bringing tears to her eyes.

"So many died. The house was on fire and I thought it was the end… but then they came in force—the Venerable Spears. It was like a tidal wave. They came from over the mountains with jetpacks and these visceral weapons and began pushing back the Fang. At some point, I passed out from the smoke from the house fire. Were it not for the Venerable Spears, we'd have died that night and this… shadow of what was once the movement of our people, would've burned Kuo Kuana to the ground. The next day I awoke with my wounds patched up, one of the strangest giants I had ever seen at my side. His eyes glowed like miniature suns… it felt like he could stare into your very _soul_. It was… unpleasant. I later learned his name—Tiberius Quintus. They call themselves Librarians. I… don't understand it, but I believe they're like huntsmen—they have semblances and something akin to aura… it was bizarre," Ghira finished. By the end of his tale, Blake was on the brink of tears, though on the road to calming down. Sun was… angry, but it was contained anger, bottled up. Ghira didn't push it.

"Regardless… since that night, we've been seeing enough Grimm to make any veteran huntsman double-back. The Spears, in exchange for quartering in the village and the knowledge of the outside world, have helped defend and rebuild the village. This room is all that's left of the house." Ghira sighed heavily.

"I… I need a minute." Blake stood up, walking out. Her father went to stop her, but was halted by Kali, giving him a look of 'drop it.' She needed her space. Sun was quick to follow her, leaving the two alone in the room with their memories.

Blake all but broke down once she burst out onto the balcony. It was dark out now, the stars in the sky above muted through Blake's teary eyes as she digested the information that had just been given to her. The White Fang under Adam were bad… but they never did things like _this_. Never would they even consider doing it to their own people no less! It didn't make sense. Nothing did anymore. Her world had been flipped upside down and everything was changing, better or for worse. Blake slumped down against the balcony's siding with a huff. A cough to her right had her jumping as she realized she was not alone.

Standing beside her was the man she presumed to be Tiberius Quintus—his eyes radiated with pure, radiant energy, though muted and definitely not the strength of a miniature sun, they were still far from normal.

"I can sense the emotions off you, young Belladonna. Your father must have told you what has happened here, then." Blake was incredulous.

"How did you—" Tiberius went ahead and finished the sentence for her.

"—know that you were a Belladonna? The hair and the ears are a giveaway. Truth be told, your father holds a high opinion of you, Blake. He's shared many stories with me," Tiberius said with a slight smile. Blake closed her mouth and sighed, slumping back down.

"It feels like the world is getting worse every day… more dangerous, more violent. More… evil," Blake mumbled. Tiberius let out a mirthless chuckle.

"The galaxy has always been evil, Blake… the evil has just decided to come out of the shadows," Tiberius replied. He let out his own sigh.

"Though my words may hold no sway, I tell you this, young Belladonna… there will always be evil out there. Even on a world such as yours, which by every standard that I've seen, still has the innocence that many others have lost," Tiberius explained. Blake tilted her head slightly in confusion, scrunching her features.

"What do you mean?" Blake turned to look at the librarian, his camouflage-armour with the bronze trim and blue accents. He stared up at the skies, leaning on the metal siding of the balcony.

"The world will always have evil in it… but it's up to people like you to fight that evil. To rise up and stand against the darkness before it consumes all that the light touches. You're strong… I can sense it. You've got pride in you, girl, but you have heart too." The librarian stood to look down at Blake, who had since stood herself.

"But what if I can't stop it? What if I'm too weak?" Blake asked, demoralized and downtrodden. A leather-clad gauntlet gently clasped her shoulder.

"There is a phrase that my… father used to tell me and my brothers, long ago. 'United we stand, divided we fall.' As individuals, however strong we may be, it is exceedingly rare for us to stay true when fighting against enemies like these… though with our friends, our brothers, only then can we stand a chance." Tiberius tapped the railing as his mind trailed off.

"Your father sounds like a wise man," Blake stated after a long silence. Tiberius chuckled.

"He was…" Tiberius' face grew sorrowful. Blake couldn't help herself and pressed it.

"Do you still speak with your father?" Blake saw the sadness cement itself onto Tiberius' face, regretting bringing it up immediately.

"He's… gone. He left when I was still young. Our… family was disgraced by it," Tiberius said with a sigh.

"I must go. I have duties to attend to… think about what I said, miss Belladonna. The days to come will not be easy… only through unity will we make it out in one piece." With that, Tiberius left her to stare up at the stars glistening in the sky. 

* * *

**Howdy folks, Commissar Waffles here.**

**I know it's been a while, so I figured I'd let y'all know that the story is undergoing a rewrite. Once the rewrites of chapters five and six are complete, I will (ATTEMPT) to follow a less dead upload schedule. I'm not going to promise an actual schedule, but updates should be less sporadic.**

**I also opened up a discussion board and a QNA forum post.**

forum/Fires-of-War-Discussion-Board-QNA/228888/

**Submit your questions there and I'll answer them to the best of my ability. I highly encourage you all to submit questions. Silly or serious, even if it's just to tell me I have dumb looking shoes. I want to hear from y'all!**

**With that, I bid you adieu while I continue to rewrite the story. I hope you've enjoyed,**

**Sincerely, **

**Commissar Waffles.**


	6. Chapter Five

Hanging in Remnant's orbit, the cracked moon was almost symbolic to the people below. It was a part of their history, whether they knew it or not.

If they knew about the great forge ship that currently siphoned mineral from its dark side, they would likely be furious and terrified.

Aboard the ship, the Magos-Errant Tomika Bellehumeur watched over her legion of techpriests, skitarii and servitors with a steely gaze. Her red cloak contained the husk of her human form, the weak flesh mostly replaced by hardened adamantine, steels, titanium and other such metals, with whirring cogs and mechadendrites gathered up beneath, giving her a hunched stance, with multiple arms leaning upon a great staff, coursing with electricity and letting out a mechanical purr as she moved about the ship.

Currently, she watched as servitors and serfs worked tirelessly to refine metals, break apart stone and fuel the great Forge Ship's mighty war furnaces and please its blessed machine spirit, one that was millennia old when it was picked up by the Legiones Sentinels picked them up some time back during M33-M35 Tomika could not quite recall, her memory hardware had seen much wear and tear over the millennia and was not in the best of conditions.

"Magos-Errant. Urgent message from the Warmaster of the Dust Sentinels, they request your presence on the planet. He claims to have discovered Archeotech," a tech-priest plodded over to Tomika to relay, receiving a nod from the hulking mass of steel and cybernetics.

For someone walking with a cane, the Magos-Errant of the great Forge-craft _Warmachine Evermore_ was able to move about her ship efficiently, crossing a distance in ten minutes which a normal man could cross in thirty. Tomika knew her ship as she served it for millennia, once as a lowly enginseer repairing beaten-up wargear and vehicles for an impoverished, undermanned regiment of Imperial Guard, now leading an entire forge-ship, where her brilliance truly shone.

If her superiors and fellow Magos knew of her actions with the Sentinels, she'd likely be turned into a servitor, for the Magos-Errant was a perfectionist, and nothing irritated her more than the weak wills of the Mechanicus, ignoring serious flaws in STC designs because it was sacrilege, allowing weapons like the Magnacore, Ryza and Ragefire-patterns of Plasma guns the possibility to kill their user after six shots, and vehicles like the _Omnissiah-damned _Stormraven and Thunderhawk ships to have the capacity for their engines to fail mid-flight. These weapons would be shoved into the hands of barely trained flesh-babies who would turn themselves into red mush because their tiny brains didn't know every inch of their weapon. It was unacceptable and a disgrace to the Machine God and the machine spirits of these beautiful machinations of war.

So, the next logical step for Tomika was to improve the designs, now that she and her followers were away from the prying eyes of those Martian fools.

Ultimately, the design philosophies remained the same, however they were improved to lower casualty rates for just _using_ these weapons and raise the casualty rates of those downrange. She held a few aces up her mechadendrite-filled sleeve still, but she played them close to her chest. Tomika trusted the Sentinels, but she absolutely despised the Black Templars. They were an affront to everything the Imperium was built upon, however, unfortunately, they were a harshly accurate representation of what the _modern_ Imperium stood for. Truly, the Emperor was rolling in the Golden Throne.

Tomika arrived at her destination; a hangar containing her personal ship and a ten-man squad of Skitarii specialists; her own personal guard of sorts, alongside a small gaggle of servoskulls and a servitor armed with a drill and a blowtorch. It was once a man, however that was millennia ago, back when Tomika was more flesh than metal.

Regardless, she entered her ship with her small cluster of support personnel, powering it up and entering the void, glancing at the massive ship before her. A massive circular section in the center of the ship used gravity drills to precision strip-mine into the moon, with lowly enginseers and serfs in atmospheric suits drilling away beside the massive mining section.

Tomika focused her mind on getting the ship planetside.

* * *

The Magos-Errant arrived at Firebase _Umbra _around mid-day, where Warmaster Felgelan Fellbreaker awaited, adorned in his artificer battle-plate, helmet tucked under one arm as a squad of Black Templars zipped past him in a Land Speeder, off toward the inhabited part of the island they had decided to use as a launching platform for planetside operations. Centuries of skill allowed her to land the craft and step out with her skitarii, personal servitor and servoskulls in tow.

"I was informed that you have discovered archeotech?" Tomika asked, looking up at Fellbreaker through a trio of glowing blue eye lenses from under her hood. He nodded.

"A scout company of mine has discovered… _something_ whilst investigating the ruins of Vale. It was abandoned, save for the latent signature of psyker powers being used and a _lot_ of corpses and scrap metal," Fellbreaker explained. Tomika grumbled.

"And I'm assuming you've reasons for not just hailing me over the vox, you fleshbag?" Tomika spat, earning a nod.

"I have reason to believe the Black Templars are jamming vox communications from this base… I've a sneaking suspicion they plan on killing me and the other Dust Sentinels on the base, and I've no doubt they would just tail our ships and gun us down over the ocean if we were to broadcast over vox. 'Kill two birds with one stone,' as the commissars say," Fellbreaker explained, prompting a nod from Tomika.

"Yes, that… sounds like them. Grab a five-man squad of our techmarines and a five-man squad of your tactical veterans, I must speak with my adepts here before we leave," Tomika spoke, already off to one of the Mechanicus garage-complex, Fellbreaker off to gather his brothers.

* * *

Fellbreaker and Tomika's forces arrived at Beacon Academy midday. Thankfully, the huntsmen and huntresses had been pushed back to other cities during the White Fang occupation, and with that situation only being resolved recently, there was still time for the conglomerate of Astartes and Mechanicus to pillage the campus without quarrel from the planet's warriors.

Tomika, escorted by five Skitarii wielding Galvanic Rifles and similar weaponry, entered the bowels of Beacon Tower, her mind alight with the insatiable hunger for knowledge that the Mechanicus often held.

Her warriors treaded softly among the graves of blessed machine spirits, and the Astartes shared this respect, legs perambulating as softly as possible. As they ventured deeper, they found more. A corpse held within a foreign machine, whose spirit cried for mercy from howling, hungering viruses clawing its way toward its virgin systems, unprotected and ignorant of the threat.

Tomika silenced the spirit's cries by overloading the machine, granting it the mercy it so desired. Past it, stood great, ornate doors, adorned with a symbol that wracked unease among the Astartes.

"Warmaster, is that…?" a Techmarine called out to his spiritual liege, gazing upon the golden symbol, a circular shape with four flowing tendrils spreading out from four directions…

"The Sons of Magnus," the Warmaster confirmed, glancing to his pauldron where a similar symbol was. The true symbol of the Thousand Sons was placed upon it, modified in a way that it could barely be identified as such, paying homage to the Primarch that many in the Legion believed to be their true Genefather, however their history must wait. The Dust Sentinel Astartes formed two rows of five, shoulder-to-shoulder to match the width of the hall, with tactical marines at the fore and techmarines behind them, space between for the Warmaster, Tomika and her skitarii-guards to move, their whirring mechadendrites allowing these Techmarines to form a mechanical rearguard of writhing tendrils of steely composition.

They pushed into a massive, open complex devoid of life, with but a single, shriveled corpse by the center, where a swirling portal lay, the pedestal beneath it caked in blood and the steps before them splashed in a snaking trail leading to the body at the center. Thick layers of dust covered every surface, ornate silvers offset by shimmering gold and bronze forming the palette for everything besides the stone floors, an offset, cream-white marble type of stone.

The Dust Sentinels could feel the latent energies in the air; this room, this great hall, it once held host to dozens if not hundreds of psykers, including what they could but assume to be a Templi Magister or the Red Cyclops of Prospero himself…

They treaded lighter as their formations broke, techmarines scattering to examine rows of data slates mounted onto blank walls, Tomika herself wandering over to an ancient Dreadnought, long since disabled and riddled with damage. Tomika spoke to its most Blessed Machine Spirit and wept for it; the great soul of the machine suffered horribly, with its host having long perished, their souls mingling within the rotting carcass of rusted adamantine and ceramite battle-plate, frayed servos and failing systems.

"Do we stand among the tomb of the traitor legion?" Warmaster Fellbreaker pondered aloud, plodding up to the body lying lifeless, shriveled and lonesome. He was not glorified with a response. Tactical marines reported long corridors, lined with empty racks for bolters, a Techmarine reported discovering an automated forge spitting out Phobos-pattern bolters, magazines and bolts for those weapons, similar-age patterned heavy bolters, chain blades bearing resemblance to those used by the Thousand Sons, further cementing Fellbreaker's theory.

"Where have they all gone?" asked the tactical squad sergeant, a veteran adorned in Heresy-pattern armour, marked with weeping skulls, draped in a robe marked in holy wards.

"Good question, brother-sergeant," Fellbreaker replied, kneeling beside the corpse on the floor. It was decaying, and by the amount, Fellbreaker presumed it to have died less than a year ago, the culprit an arrow lodged into its chest and many battle wounds, cauterized.

"Magos-Errant, what of your findings?" Fellbreaker spoke after a moment of silence, prompting a grumble over the vox.

"I'm displeased to say that the STC templates here are irremovable, built into the forge within the bowels of this bunker. You were correct in your assuming this place belonging to Magnus the Red and his traitor sons, I've recovered coordinates for at least three other bunkers like this one, all containing the remainder of the Thousand Sons. Beyond the fact that they are using old Horus Heresy-era technologies including Phobos bolters, Mark III Astartes Power Armour, among other things, there are hundreds of encrypted data logs that I will be bringing with me back to my forge-craft for study," Tomika explained, swooning over an odd silver rectangular object with two narrow slits on the top with eyes full of desire.

"This is both great and troubling news… we must handle this with utmost caution. Brother-sergeant? Take the aircraft and your squad, return to our fortress-monastery and inform the Legion's Chief Librarian of this development. The Grand Warmaster of the Legion will inform the Templars and Salamanders, we cannot allow them to learn of this place or of Magnus' existence on this planet. For all we know, he is out there pillaging, enslaving and murdering all who come before him…" Fellbreaker ordered, trailing off to stare at the corpse.

* * *

"By the Gods, how can such a creature so… so… _adorable_ be allowed to exist?!" Magnus exclaimed as he swooned over a small stray dog as it panted, held within one of his ogre-sized hands ever so gently as to not harm it, one arm leaning upon his staff, planted into the earth.

Around him, some one-hundred or so of his sons milled about, interacting with the local villagers or the environment. Their gene-father told them to march to Anima, and march to Anima they would, the mighty Sorcerer of Prospero at their fore, much to their joy. Before they'd departed for this planet—somewhere between a Death World and a Hive World—one-thousand of Magnus' sons had split from their covens, from their warbands or whatever such unorganized gaggles of Chaos-corrupted Astartes and cultists, and had reunited with their father, either forcefully or by their own choice, to head off to some odd, never before seen planet far beyond any space previously occupied by the Imperium, Chaos or xenos forces, adopting their old symbols as penitence for their treachery.

They spent centuries fighting the monsters of Grimm under Magnus, cured of the flesh change and their rubrics reverted back to their whole selves, before being sealed away within the bowels of the Huntsman Academies, four hundred, including the Magister Templi (save for the _Corvidae_) and Magnus the Red himself, beneath Beacon, two hundred and a Great Library which fed into Haven academy, where students could become educated on subjects of Remnant that have been written down over centuries by warrior-librarians hidden beneath, another two hundred beneath Shade Academy alongside a well-kept secret of Magnus', and two hundred beneath Atlas, alongside their wealthy vehicle armoury.

Magnus kept his plan close to the chest, however he learned from the mistakes of his father in one way or another and vowed to explain it to them once the second relic was in their grasp, assuring their victory against Salem, Tzeentch's Witch as she'd been aptly named by the sorcerer-warriors of the Sons of Magnus.

Their force had stopped short of a port town in Vale, where the Magister Templi of the _Athanaeans _was haggling for a small fleet of commercial vessels that could hold the sheer bulk of four hundred Astartes and one Primarch. In the meanwhile, they were granted freedom to interact with the civilians and were not to intervene in their daily rituals with lethal force in any kind. They were given the right to apply force if need be, whether they were harassed by the local law enforcement or attempting to halt petty crime.

Thankfully, once four hundred of the massive genetically forged warriors in their shining scarlet and silver armour arrived, there were naught but two events that required intervention. A petty thief attempting to steal an abhuman woman's purse—who was promptly flicked in the chest by a brother-sergeant by the name of Paekim Kyrev, cracking two ribs and knocking him out cold, allowing the woman to retrieve her purse, and the other was as the police officer watched Paekim do this, trying to arrest the hulking Astartes, with… little effect.

Despite their appearance and their nature as veritable gods of the battlefield, they had no issue fraternizing with the locals. Children climbed a brother, sitting with his legs crossed and in deep meditation, like a jungle-gym, local men attempted to arm-wrestle one of their unarmoured brothers, forming a long, snaking line with the losers standing by, watching, idly cradling aching hands from being gripped by such strong opponents. _Raptora_ sorcerers helped ferry material from the port to boats, _Pavoni _Biomancers knelt before stalls and watched as their owners grilled kebabs and other foodstuffs, _Pyrae_ pyromancers held small crowds with tricks using their fire, and _Athanaeans _tellers shared intentionally vague predictions of the future to those who listened.

Magnus watched his Sons with a sense of pride swelling in his bosom. Here stood what was once an unorganized mess of Chaos Worshippers, interacting (mostly) peacefully with a civilian population of humans and their genetically deviant abhuman fellows, the Faunus. The defragmenting of his soul affected more than just him, it seemed. His Sons all shared a newfound empathy toward the civilians, held a certain amount of respect for them. It was something Magnus learned in his first days of returning to his full self again, and it made him let loose a sigh of relief that could knock down trees and shrivel his three lungs into raisin-like organs.

He stood with the remaining three Magister Templi at the edge of the forest, observing his Sons with a watchful gaze.

"Truly, we've been gifted, wouldn't you agree, brother?" spoke Skessir Ferriar, Magister Templi of the _Pyrae_ to his fellow Templi of the _Raptora_, Azkaelial Issas, receiving a nod and brief chuckle from the Astartes.

"Truly. Our Primarch has returned to us as himself rather than a fragment of what he once was, and we've been resolved of the Change and our Rubrics reverted to their past selves!" Issas replied.

"For the most part… they're marked forever, and I fear that they will succumb to their own frailty if we do not keep an eye on them," claimed Shen'ban Albistus, Magister of the _Pavoni_.

"Your mind is jaded, and your thoughts are dark, brother. Look before you at this great sight! We stand here, undivided for the first time in _millennia_ and have a chance to stand beside the Emperor once again," Ferriar spoke in jovial tone to his fellow Templi, prompting a humourless chuckle and a head-shake from him.

"That is if he's learned from his mistakes and doesn't destroy our very _souls_ outright for betraying him to begin with," retorted Ablistus. He was old, a survivor of the Burning of Prospero and rumours of him being one of the original members of the legion recruited from Terra.

"That willn't be an issue if we can accomplish our goals, my son," Magnus piped in as he stood, hand outstretched so that a raven could land upon it for a moment before quickly fluttering off.

"This planet is a gift from the uncaring Universe, and we must appreciate it, protect it with our lives. It will be our new home, from which we will bring ourselves to a mighty status and eventually return to Father's fold. If we can use these relics like dear Ozma used it upon me, then we stand a chance to revive him from his millennia-long cat nap on that golden toilet," Magnus spoke to the Magisters. Albistus frowned and narrowed his eyes.

"My Primarch, do not take my questioning as disrespect, but how can you be so forgiving of your father when he's taken so much from you?" Albistus asked, prompting a soft smile from Magnus and a nod as he took in the fresh air.

"I do not quite forgive him, but I cannot sit idly by with the knowledge I have of Chaos and how it has shaped our history. It was Chaos that turned my dear brother Horus, chaos that made our legion into the spawn of chaos at the most random of times, that made the accursed Ahriman turned our armies into dust and ash… That influenced me to betray my own Sons and my father… Truly, it was shameful. What my father did was not as bad, but I will never quite forgive him in the way I've forgiven Ahriman for his sins, but I wish the best for Mankind in the same way as my father, and I understand that he is the very Anathema that brings forth the emotion that I once thought Chaos was unable to feel… fear. He is the God of Order if there ever was one, and order will save the galaxy from the corruptive forces that scheme against it. I do not wish to revive my father to gain his forgiveness, rather I wish to redeem our legion in the eyes of _Man_, so that we may once again walk among Astartes and Primarch, knowing that we could rise from the Darkness and save Mankind from those ruinous powers that plague the universe…" Magnus responded, charisma seeping from his voice. This earned a nod from Albistus. He understood, at least partially. Midway through the speech, the Magister Templi of the _Athanaeans_, Azkaecona Guillit, arrived.

"What have you, Guillit?" Magnus asked, recomposed and with a steely gaze. Azkaecona Guillit, ever the master of the deal and an Astartes with a silver tongue like his gene-father's, smiled to Magnus.

"I've secured us places on two industrial freighters leaving for a port city known as Wind Path. It will put us on a path directly to Mistral," Guillit relayed, prompting a nod from Magnus.

"We depart in two days… and there was another thing, my Primarch," Guillit began, prompting a raised eyebrow from the red cyclops of Prospero.

"There are claims of Astartes Scout Companies of the Legios Sentinalis have been spotted across the planet," Guillit explained, prompting a wide grin from Magnus.

"This is good… it will be nice to meet with our… _estranged_ blood once again, hopefully under better circumstances," Magnus proclaimed. Soon, he'd have six hundred Astartes under his command, if all went accordingly, and although it rarely did, Magnus had confidence that they would be able to at least make it to the continent of Anima without the foul foot of Tzeentch stumbling them into a conveniently placed metaphorical rake that would strike them in the face with its staff.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Another short chapter, I know. Many apologies, but it keeps you all hooked.**

**With that, onto the reviews.**

**D'nnome: **In the words of Magnus the Red, and the only good words to use if you have watched If the Emperor had a Text to Speech Device.

Fuck you Leman, and your fucking furries.

Stop... flicking... your... cards.  
[FLICK]  
[Angry nerd noises]

Basically, I would like Magnus to be more like that.

**My plans for Magnus and this story is less TTS-y than I'm sure most people expected, however the art used for Magnus serves its purpose. In TTS (even if it didn't take itself seriously in the best ways) Magnus found a way to get in the good graces of Big E again, and here, he's doing... mostly the same thing.**

**Thraus: **Well, it just vibes but they could be linked to Word Bearers, unless it is completely homegrown descendant of II or XI. That would imply quite a complicated relationship with rest of the Legions, Wolves most of all.

**Fuck the Word Bearers, everything is Lorgar's fault. Nuff said.**

**With that, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter. Leave your thoughts in the reviews and have a good... day, or night, I don't know when you're reading this, I'm not from the _Athanaeans_.**


	7. Chapter Six

There were no words shared among the party of scouts and huntsmen as they trudged through mud and dragged their legs along stone paths as if they were carrying tonnes of material on their backs. Faces shared a general melancholic grimness as they trekked across miles of land, rain pounding on their heads and hoods. The canopy provided little cover from the onslaught of rain, only proving to give shade, proving to make a frigid cold journey, even amid springtime warming temperature.

They entered the town of Oniyuri at dusk, rain grinding to a slow halt. Callen and Gaelos, the two shotgunner scouts, hefted the stretcher carrying Qrow Branwen, who had been significantly weakened by the fight with Tyrian Callows, due to some sort of poison. They wouldn't allow such a monster to live or escape, and as vengeance for slaying one of their brothers, Brother-Sergeant Dyreson had turned him to mincemeat with his chainsword before they laid their brother to rest, burying him outside the village after stashing his equipment with a beacon for other scouts to recover.

The party hadn't quite been the same since, and it brought attention from the Grimm. At some point before entering the town, when they reached the crossroad before it, Ren and Nora had split off from the group to cover more ground and hopefully call for reinforcements from Mistral, however Dyreson suspected this a lie. He supposed there was a past and left it there, sending with them brother Calistro in the event they encountered any heavier grimm. He believed in Calistro's ability to turn any hostiles into slag and goo with his melta gun.

"Forbin… we need to stop to rest, look for medicine. Qrow can't keep going like this and the rain will only let up for so long," Ruby begged. She was shivering, cold and soaked to the bone from the frigid rain.

"I know. You and Jaune go scavenge in the town, I'll have my brothers secure a building for Qrow. My snipers and I shall perform reconnaissance. I'll make sure they arrive at position this time," he relented, drawing his bolt pistol and chainsword, nodding to the sniper-spotter pair in his group, trailing behind him as their forces split up, Ruby, Jaune and the rest of the scouts heading deeper into the town to search for medical supplies whilst Dyreson led Quietus and Carausius into a nearby tower, weathered by age with hole-ridden walls and an intermittently-shingled roof, sporting gashes in the structure, allowing for rain to pour in. The trio entered and slowly mantled the stairs.

"Maintain position here. Rip new holes into the walls if you need a better sightline, but don't let us down. Emperor be with you," Dyreson ordered, receiving nods in reply before he plodded down the stairs and out to the main road. Their casualty weighed heavy on his conscience, more than he knew to allow. He made a choice, sacrificing his life for another, but Dyreson still felt himself to blame. It was due to his weakness that he could not be there to take Ezequiel's place.

Regardless, he pushed onward. It is what Dyreson would've wanted were their positions switched. He wandered from one end of the village to another, searching for what little meagre scraps he could find, finding naught but evidence of Oniyuri's downfall. Massive hoofprints embedded into mud, rotting corpses left in the nooks and crannies, in narrow alleys, under buildings, hidden within dumpsters riddled with massive gashes from grimm attacking, in piles wedging doors and other places. Sights that Dyreson knew all too well from his time fighting Chaos in the decades preceding their time on Remnant. Fleeing from a threat greater than their entire numbers could fend against—back in the fractured Imperium, Dyreson often knew that threat to be the corrupted, traitorous Astartes. Here, it was the beastly Grimm and their vile nature.

Regardless, the threat was just that; a threat to be executed and purged, regardless of whatever identity it hid behind. Dyreson would deal with it as such whenever the threats reared their ugly heads. The Sentinel Legion has spent the past ten millennia cruising across Imperial territories, fighting off chaos, xenos and on more than one occasion, quelling a rebellious guard regiment or system of planets in less than diplomatic operations that involved orbital bombings, mass invasion and a lot of casualties on both sides.

Though their self-induced penitence crusade of sorts had certainly hurt their numbers, they still allowed themselves to replenish their numbers, and often the imperial worlds they saved were thankful and provided them with a vast amount of neophytes, however they were still in decline, their numbers somewhere under seven thousand Astartes, and those neophytes who washed out whilst remaining combat ready, they became the chapter serfs and the regiment of defensive units that protected their fleet of ships, often utilizing scout armour and carapace armour, bolters and lasrifles. Often, they were a vanguard and reconnaissance force deployed alongside actual scouts, however due to the nature of their mission on Remnant, they were kept in reserve to defend the ships. His musings were cut short by a vox hail.

"_Brother-Sergeant Dyreson, report,_" the voice of his subordinate, one Captain Dragos Bredahl, ordered. Dyreson sheathed his weapons and moved into a nearby building as the rain began to pick up again.

"We've established companionship with the huntsmen and are making our way toward Mistral. If we continue at our current pace, we shall arrive within the month," Dyreson reported.

"_You've new orders, brother. There has been… a _development_. Once you arrive in Mistral, fortify Haven Academy and establish the status of their headmaster. If he has been compromised, execute him. We're deploying 7__th__ Dark Sentinels Company to reinforce the city, we've suspicions that the terrorist abhuman group, the White Fang, is planning to attack the school based on information gathered in the abhuman village on Menagerie,_" Bredahl ordered.

"Acknowledged, brother-captain. The Emperor Protects," Dyreson signed off.

"_The Emperor Protects."_ Dyreson exited the building to meet up with the rest of his squadmates and team RNJR. The entire village was clouded by the unstopping, unrivaled onslaught of downpour, restricting his vision and interfering with his vox. The constant claps of thunder and nonstop booms of thunder interfered with his hearing and the unrelenting crackle of static through his headset didn't help much either. His unease was only increasing as he neared closer to the center of the town.

His pace shifted from a slow jog into a dead sprint when he heard the discharge of a heavy bolter, and soon he was at the center, where the four members of team RNJR and the remainder of his scouts faced off against a massive Grimm on horseback. It was hideous, a poor, corrupted mimicry of the human form, with long, spindly arms, odd rib-like bones along its chest, and it seemed to be fused with the horse beneath it. He recognized it as an Imp, a Grimm that he couldn't help but despise, what with it being what it was, and the horse-like Grimm it rode he could not recognize.

"_—Brother-Sergeant! This monstrosity has us pinned down!"_ Brother Ironfang called over vox. Dyreson spotted him behind a pile of debris, alongside Lipira, who was on his back, eyes staring at the sky, unmoving. His entire form was scorched and melted from his plasma cannon likely overheating and exploding. Leonatos and Calistro had their backs against a girthy tree in the center of this makeshift arena, popping out to fire quick bursts from their Godwyn-pattern bolter and short, low-power discharges from the melta-gun cradled in Calistro's arms. Dyreson ran to Leonatos, firing off a few bolts at the monstrosity before ducking behind the tree between the two scouts.

"Brother Leonatos! Report!" Dyreson yelled. Leonatos popped out of cover to fire a quick burst, but quickly slammed his back into the tree as a black limb shot out like a boltshell, quickly hitting something past the fog of war that surrounded them.

"Lipira is in critical condition, his plasma cannon misfired and detonated, only glancing the beast and collapsing several buildings. Dardashti has been slain, the mutant beast pierced his cuirass and punctured his hearts instantly. Callen and Gaelos are still guarding the huntsman—the beast seems to be targeting the man, so we put them and brothers Quietus and Carausius in the building, however I think the rain is inhibiting their ability to make any precision shots," Leonatos replied, unsheathing his combat knife and driving it into the limb as it retracted, nearly being ripped out of cover, were it not for Dyreson grabbing him and pulling him back, where another limb shot out to impale him, digging into the tree.

"What of Team RNJR?!" Dyreson yelled over the constant pounding of rain. Leonatos scooped up his bolter and begun to reload.

"Lie Ren and Nora Valkyrie rejoined the fighting as the beast showed up. Jaune Arc and Ruby Rose are engaged in melee with the monster, however I—" Leonatos was cut off by an ear-piercing screech, that whilst significantly less harmful to the Astartes, stunned the Huntsmen. Dyreson swore under his breath, grabbing his helmet from his hip and slipping it on. He let out a war cry, throttled his chainsword, and swung out of cover in sync with Leonatos, engaging in a dead-sprint toward the hulking shadowy form of the beast, his only indicator of its position the glowing eyes and grill-like mouth. Something was happening to it, and Dyreson soon halted his charge as he came across Jaune, who lay prone and wounded, shield dented heavily from an unforeseen force.

He hefted the boy over one shoulder, turning and throwing him like a javelin toward the tree. The 'aura' used by these students would protect Jaune. Dyreson quickly spun to deflect a massive tendril from hitting his throat using the broad side of his chainsword and growled in rage as he saw the Grimm.

It was no longer just a horse-riding Grimm. Standing alongside it, was some sort of Chaos Spawn, a writhing monstrosity of pale flesh that screeched with unholy rage as it lashed out at Dyreson. It appeared from a swirling warp portal in the ground, and more soon followed.

"CHAOS SPAWN!" Dyreson screamed over vox as he sidestepped a swipe from the first spawn. It stood at least a meter taller, and was three times his width, covered in tumorous growths, screaming, snapping maws, tendrils and writhing limbs, heaving as its horribly twisted form struggled to continue living. Beneath its bubbling, hideously bloated flesh, Dyreson could make out a piece of rusted scarlet Astartes-plate. His rage burned brighter, and he ducked under a swing from an underdeveloped, malnourished limb and drove his chainsword deep under the arm of the beast. He throttled the blade and shoved his bolt pistol into one of many gaping maws in reach, shredding the inside of its mouth with a scream dying on its many lips.

He turned himself to narrowly avoid another swipe from the beast and drove his chainsword deeper in, rending asunder the strained malformed organs within, popping heaving, bloated lungs like balloons, shredding the hearts into paste and destroying whatever else got in the way of the blade's roaring, hungering adamantine teeth. His bolts finished it off, shaving away the disgustingly pale, tumour-ridden, callous flesh like peeling an orange.

His eyes turned briefly to the Grimm that had begun this mess. It was mutating, growing larger with fleshy sinew and muscle sprouting from where there was once little, turning what was once a skeletal beast of shadowy bone and "skin" into a monstrosity of Chaos incarnation. How this was baffled Dyreson. Grimm were without souls, yet here it was, becoming likely possessed by a Daemon.

However, his mind was not focused on this for long as he engaged another Chaos Spawn; a tall, lanky one of Nurgle's influence, leaking pus and exposing its bloated, fetid innards. Noxious fumes leaked from a gaping maw full of rotted teeth and a lolling tongue covered in blisters and open sores, leaking thick black ichor and letting loose an unholy, inhuman screech of unending agony. Its decaying form swayed as it approached Dyreson, sluggishly swinging one of its long, putrid, gash-ridden arms at him, only for it to lose the limb and suddenly gain an additional three holes in its chest and one in its head, causing it to crumple to the ground. Dyreson dropped his bolt pistol magazine and slapped a fresh one in. Thankfully, the students had retreated once the chaos spawn appeared, thanks to orders from the rest of the scouts, leaving just this appalling abomination and Dyreson. The thing had the eight-pointed star sprouting from its back in bone, poorly coated in rings of flesh, the hardened, yellowed material poking through gaps in the pulsating, disgusting meat. It was undeserving of existence, and Dyreson pledged himself to be the one to punish it for its sin of trying to live, a disgusting, unacceptable imitation of the glorious human form.

He launched himself forward, and this beast did the same. The horse, little more than a wall of screaming, writhing muscle and bone at this point, stumbled along with a miasma of additional limbs, not at all struggling to match and surpass Dyreson's speed, its human "rider" fused into it sporting a sadistic grin of inhuman, savage glee as it raised its newly formed weapon to strike at Dyreson; a shoddy sword made of reforged stone and corrupted, rusting metal, poorly made as all things Chaos were, lacking the purity and industrious strength of the holy chainblade in Dyreson's grasp.

It swung wide, muscles bulging and rippling as it did so, screeching its unholy screams of monstrous sadism, through its unholy lungs was the voice of the Daemon residing within, a disgusting apparition of all that Dyreson despised and hated. With his chainblade he clashed with this Daemon's unworthy vessel as reliant adamantium met cracking, festering stone, slowly pushing back this monster with the might of the Emperor at his hands and coursing through his veins and through his blade.

Dyreson swung, and slashed and sliced, tearing apart unholy sinew and muscle, pushing back with guttural war cries escaping his lips, the rage of the fallen and the lost empowering his lungs and empowering his actions as he did so, rending asunder the monster, allowing its dark, shadowy form to yet again reveal itself, more weak and frail than the poor imitation of the most holy of forms that it tried to create. The daemon fought back, but its will could not hope to match that of Dyreson's as he slowly encroached, tearing limbs from the body of the howling, putrid, olid beast upon which it rode, causing it to fall upon its side, allowing Dyreson to plant his boot on its neck as it screamed and cried out in defiance as he removed its limbs in swift motions and riddled its mount with further damage from explosive bolts.

Lie Ren stepped forward as the daemonic flesh was flayed and peeled away, revealing the beastly rider in its whole form, thrashing and screeching as it tried to get away, its voice gurgling and strained as Dyreson held his boot onto its throat. Ren gave Dyreson a look of pleading. He wished to kill this beast, and with this look Dyreson shared this hatred with Ren. This bestial, soulless monster has taken things from the boy, things that could **never** be replaced. He stepped off, allowing the beast to feebly lunge at Ren with too little strength, howling its unholy call to Ren.

"For my mother," He drove Storm into its gut, causing its cry to die on its lips, replaced by a screech of agony.

"For my father," he drove Flower into its neck, silencing its cries once more as it shuddered, staring up into Ren's eyes with a feeling Dyreson recognized oh so well, and seeing it brought a sense of content to the sergeant. It was fear.

"For me," Ren unsheathed a curved blade from his hip and rammed it up through the jaw of the beast, screaming a bloody war cry as he slew the beast, ripping out the blade and driving it into its skull, over, and over, until it turned to misty ash. Dyreson placed a hand on the boy's shoulder as he was about to begin stabbing again, bringing him back to reality. The boy recomposed himself, collected his weapons and took a deep breath before crumpling to his knees, allowing a smile to adorn his features for but a moment. The rain slowed and halted around them as the beast's ashes became a pillar of smoke that rose to the heavens, where it returned to whatever putrid "God" that created it. The students stood up from their cover of a nearby collapsed building, shocked by what little of that fight they saw.

"What… was that?" Ruby eventually asked after a long, tense silence. Dyreson turned to face her, blade bathed in the ichor of the corrupted and the damned, armour dented and scratched.

"Emperor-damn it—I will tell you all what's going on, _soon_. First, we need to get as far from here as possible. The very earth here is corrupt—our ground will be covered by men wielding flamers," Dyreson replied, shaking gore from his sword and holstering his bolt-pistol.

"Soon doesn't work. Whatever in God's name… _**that**_ was, I've never seen anything like it. We need to know **now**!" Jaune spat, anger tempered by feelings of betrayal painted on his features. Dyreson was thankful the boy hadn't a clue at concealing his emotions.

"I promise, I'll tell you all **everything**, but not here, it isn't the time nor place for a story!" Dyreson growled in reply, earning a huff of irritancy from Jaune, who walked off to get Qrow. Dyreson ignored the outburst, kneeling beside his fallen brother who once wielded the plasma cannon.

"You died an Angel's death, and the Emperor will gladly call you his son when you reach the Golden Throne. May your journey be smooth, and may your will be resolute. With this, I grant you death," he prayed, lying the body of Lipira prone and draping a cloth over it.

"Brother Quietus, I need a full casualty report," Dyreson ordered over vox, getting a beep of affirmation in reply.

"_Brother Carausius is slain—died protecting one of the students from one of those Spawn. Brothers Calistro and Ironfang are critically wounded, but stable for the time being… however, I don't think they can make the trip to Mistral…_" Quietus reported.

"I understand. Get them comfortable, we'll give them a warrior's death if an opportunity doesn't present itself—" Dyreson was cut off as his ears picked up the sound of an airship. Ruby cried out with joy and pointed downrange.

Three airships, marked with the symbol of the Kingdom of Mistral, arrived. The woman who stepped out brought surprise to the features of Dyreson and his fellow scouts, quickly getting in formation and saluting.

Cecila Abajian climbed from the dropship, adorned in a basic cuirass, rerebraces, greaves and thin cuisses, painted white and adorned in the wear and tear of battle, the symbol of Mistral spray-painted onto her breastplate shoddily. On her hip, a power sword, in her left hand a hellpistol, attached to a battery pack on the rear of her waist the size of a cereal box.

"Tell your men to relax, Forbin, they are making my crew… _anxious_. What is your status?" She asked directly to the sergeant, who held a hand up to his scouts, allowing them to stand at rest.

"We've three injured, two of mine own and one huntsman, the uncle of the young red-hooded one before you," Forbin reported, nodding to Ruby Rose, who was leaning against a nearby building and speaking to Jaune, finally allowing herself a moment of rest after their long journey.

"Ruby Rose. The rumours, are they—?" Cecila began to ask, Forbin cutting her off quickly with a nod.

"We will talk more of it later, for now, I've two Astartes in need of attention, however the huntsman can come first, the poison he's influenced by will only take a herbal remedy to fix, but I've not the herbs to make it," Forbin explained, prompting a nod from Cecila.

"Get them loaded into the airships, we'll be out right off the bat… and I don't know if you've heard, but there's been a… _development_, to our predicament," Cecila replied.

"The White Fang's attack plan?" Forbin asked, getting a head shake from Cecila.

"No… The traitor legion. They're on their way to Mistral, and there's suspicions that they're after the same thing as us," Cecila responded as the duo walked toward the building where Qrow and the others were held, prompting a hum of acknowledgement as Forbin thought over these details.

Inside, Lie Ren and Nora Valkyrie were knelt beside Brother Calistro, who was covered in deep gashes and was seizing up, frothing at the mouth and crying out to the Emperor. Forbin knelt beside the man and quickly examined the wounds with a macabre expression.

"Brother Calistro… I believe in your will and your strength, I've faith in your ability to combat this. Do not go gently… You will meet the Emperor at the Golden Throne one day, brother, but today is not it," Forbin prayed, removing a field kit from his hip, beginning to handle his wounds.

"What's wrong with him?" Nora asked, fear in her voice and eyes glued to Calistro's as he writhed in agony, thrashing and foaming at the mouth.

"He's been struck with a poisoned weapon of sorts," Forbin replied, ripping a long, snaky quill from inside a wound, passing it to the inquisitor behind him, who threw it to the ground, whispering a few words before blasting it with her hell-pistol. Forbin, with help from Ren, removed two more quills and quickly stabilised Calistro, narrowly saving his life.

"Let us make haste, we haven't long," Forbin ordered, heaving the Astartes onto a stretcher.

Within the hour, they were in the air, looking solemnly forward toward their objective, the mountainous city just on the horizon.

Forbin glanced across from him and saw Nora and Ren leaning into one another in the airship opposite of his, and inwardly, he smiled.

"What was that you said… when Ezequiel… and Lipira…" Ruby piped up after a moment. She sat beside him, legs dangling from the side of the airship. Dyreson glanced back at her for a moment and thought about his response.

"It… was a prayer. It is a tradition among the Sentinels—after a long battle, we collect our dead and send their souls off to the Warp with a prayer to grant them luck on the perilous journey, where their souls will cross the miasma that is that hellish dimension, and arrive at the Golden Throne, where our Emperor will judge them, worthy or unworthy of standing by his side, granting him peace or damnation," Dyreson explained.

"What's that? The Warp, I mean," Ruby asked, prompting a grim, humourless chuckle.

"I will explain soon, child. For now, just enjoy this moment of peace before it's gone. We never know when we'll have another like this," Dyreson said, leaning his head against the side of the hangar.

0o0o0

Ruby slowly eased herself out of her chair as she finished up her letter, folding it up and sticking it in an envelope to be mailed later. Behind her, Qrow lay prone in bed, snoring loudly as he rested. The poison had been expunged and he was in recovery, something that wouldn't take much longer if they were lucky. She sat on the bed beside him and allowed all the stress from the past few months to drain from her like a sieve, keeping with her the rage and the hate, things that could motivate, things she kept in check.

"Nng… Aren't I the one normally saving you?" Ruby turned to see Qrow sitting up, leaning against the backboard of the bed. She allowed herself a small laugh and a smile.

"I can't take all the credit… if it weren't for Forbin…" She trailed off, her eyes glazing over as fresh tears proved difficult to hold back, but she recomposed herself, nonetheless, wiping her eyes with a sleeve.

"Don't worry, kiddo… Something tells me it's gonna get better from here."

* * *

Qrow slid into the stool at the Spotted Kitten tavern, empty save for him and the bartender. They shared a look, and in front of Qrow was soon an ice full of strong liquor, which he nodded in thanks for. The huntsman nursed his drink quietly, tensing up as he heard the door open and loud, heavy, mechanized footfalls filled his hearing. He slowly turned to find himself face-to-chest with a massive… well, calling him a man seemed wrong, but he was that, adorned in bulbous, forest-camouflaged plate armour, a helmet clipped to his side, a weapon on his back that Qrow recognized as a bolter, and one at his hip known as a chainsword, an artificer model as told by the odd shape and longer blade.

Qrow sobered up as the man towered over him, straightening his back and keeping a hand at his side, ready to draw Harbinger if need be. The man sported a broad face, a strong jawline and tanned, dark skin, with a single metal stud in his head, and had crisscrossing scars across his face.

"Pardon me…" the man spoke. His voice was like that of a bellowing organ that rang off the walls like its church-bound comparison.

"By the Gods, you're a big mother- … Do you need something?" Qrow asked, feigning confidence. The man sighed, clear on his features he was irate and exhausted.

"I believe I am to ask you, 'to give me my cane back?'" He asked. Qrow nodded, an impressed look gracing his features for a moment, before he grabbed the bottle of liquor from behind the bar and poured himself a full glass, to which he downed it as if it were a shot.

* * *

_**SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER**_

Brother-Sergeant Archassus Tecos never considered himself religious. He followed the Imperial Truth and believed its virtues to be true and clear, but also found there to be truths with its cultish counterpart, even if it would make the Emperor roll off the Golden Throne, were he totally aware of its existence.

Despite this, Archassus found himself attending daily rituals with the Dark Sentinel "chapter" Chaplains, Librarians and Apothecaries and found himself praying each day and each night. Every time, they found his loyalty unwavering, his mind uncorrupted and untouched by Chaos, and yet, he could not stop hearing that **BLASTED VOICE.**

_'Meeting with your religious leaders will not make me go away_,' it spoke once more, only for Archassus to huff and nearly scream in rage.

"So, you say, damnable Daemonic warpspawn. I will cast you from my mind one day, even if it means performing oral intercourse with my Emperor-damned bolt-pistol!" He replied angrily to the voice that identified itself as Ozpin.

_"Archassus… Our souls are merged, you can't just get rid of me, nor will I allow you to kill yourself to rid yourself of my presence—"_ Ozpin argued.

"No! I will not allow you to corrupt my mind, filthy apparition!" Archassus spat.

"_Go to your Librarius. Tell them of your problem, tell them that you believe your soul has been combined with another," _Ozpin spoke again, prompting Archassus to growl.

"You know what, fine," he relented, shuffling out of the room, into the great hall of their floating space fortress.

The halls were lined with statues of legion heroes, Astartes who proved themselves even greater than expected of them, warmasters and men whose hearts were more courageous than most Astartes, although they numbered only three.

Lien Desparroia, Consuela Halwood and Ollanius Pius, two women and a man, mortals who proved to be courageous enough and of willpower equal and greater than that of the Emperor's Angels of Death. Lien sacrificed herself, she naught but a young, frail woman with a flak vest and a damaged lasgun, who threw herself at a Daemon Prince to buy time for hundreds of thousands of slaves to escape their grasp. She stood no chance, but this courage earned her a place as a statue in this great hall.

Consuela was the lord-commissar for the guard regiment accompanying the Sentinel Legion, with a kill count rivaling that of their Great Warmaster, a woman who died with her blade embedded in the chest of an Ork Warboss, body shredded by stubber fire, providing a distraction so that the Dust Sentinels could perform a successful flank and wipe out the ork horde from the rear. She was a fighter who could stand toe-to-toe with the best sword wielders in their Legion and as such, deserved her place just as much as Lien.

Ollanius Pius was the greatest man to ever exist, and the saint of the Imperial Guard, however the Grand Warmaster had his statue placed aboard their fortress monastery regardless, something about even the lowliest being able to inspire the greatest. His story dates to the Heresy and has been told time and time again.

Archassus plodded down the hall of the ship. Robed techmarines, Winter, Dark and Urban Sentinel Astartes wandered the halls, alongside the occasional squad of guardsmen – Astartes-washout hybrid units, taking a lift to another deck, where he walked to the outside of a great circular vault-like door, marked with psychic-dampeners and other such machinery, flanked by ten Astartes in artificer armour.

He entered the Librarius after a brief screening period, meeting with the chief librarian, Augustus Lopata in his personal study, a large, dome-shaped room in the center of the librarius, utilizing some sort of sorcery to make it larger on the inside. Augustus stood in the middle at a podium, reading from a thick, leather-bound tome. He was pale, with a short, well-kept graying jet-black beard and a bald head. His armour held an open tome chained onto one pauldron, the other inscribed with hundreds of wards, like that of an Astartes of the Deathwatch, although the symbols on their pauldrons didn't glow as Augustus' did, and his was a brilliant gold, theirs silver.

His armour assigned him to the Librarius, sporting a naval blue camouflage accented by gold. He glanced up at Archassus and smirked.

"Here again to bother me, Brother-sergeant?" he teased, closing the tome before him and walking around the podium, revealing both legs to be entirely cybernetic, covered sparsely in ceramite and adamantium plate. Archassus allowed himself a sigh and bowed his head shamefully.

"I think my soul has been merged with another," he admitted, prompting a small frown from Augustus.

"Well, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check, although don't expect much," Augustus began to speak, flaring arcane energies into his gauntlets that snaked forth and prodded at Archassus. His frown turned to surprise as he prodded into the marine's very soul, allowing the voice of Ozpin to project itself through him.

"**Hello. My name is Professor Ozpin,**" he said through Augustus' mouth, only for the Librarian to reply in kind.

"He wasn't exaggerating… your souls, they've… become intertwined. Yet, you're not Chaos…" Augustus pondered, bringing a chuckle to his own lips—Ozpin's chuckle.

"**No, I am not. If what I've found from probing the sergeant's mind is in any way correct, then I believe my cursed state has to do with your Emperor,**" Ozpin explained. He presented his story to the Chief Librarian, telling it with fervor.

"Like a Perpetual, but not quite… Interesting. Well, Ozpin, it would seem we're at an impasse. Right now, you have all but infiltrated a group considered impossible to infiltrate from the outside like this. We could have you killed, but I don't think we have any psykers powerful enough to fully destroy your soul, so I believe I will present you with an opportunity," Augustus began.

"**I'm listening,**" Ozpin replied after a moment of thought. Archassus stood still, doing the same as Ozpin.

"You will tell us everything you know about Magnus the Red, and in return, we won't expunge you from the immaterial plane permanently, and give you freedom to fight your war with this 'Salem' with some help. As it stands, our motives are aligned for the time being, I think we should utilize this opportunity to the best of us both," Augustus explained. Archassus could almost hear Ozpin's own thoughts of doubt, however they're pushed aside.

"**I believe we have a deal, Chief Librarian… But I have one condition.**" The Chief Librarian raised an eyebrow.

"Within reason… name it," he spoke.

"**When you've Salem in custody… allow me to slay her.**" The Chief Librarian nodded.

"It will be done," he said with a smile.

"**Then we have a deal. What is it you will have myself and Mister Tecos do?**" Ozpin asked.

"For now, all you need to do is find a way to coexist without Archassus here murdering you both. I believe with all this information on the table, he will find it… _unsatisfactory_ to do so, but I digress. I will push to have the 7th Company deployed—and whatever you do, do not allow **anyone** to know of your existence. This legion has been under tight scrutiny by the Imperium since our reemergence some time ago. I've a sneaking suspicion it won't matter soon enough, but for now. Please, be careful and do not give the Black Templars any reason to murder you or any other members of the Legios Sentinalis battle fleet," the Chief Librarian replied, relinquishing his psychic grasp on Archassus.

"Chief Librarian, please—" He immediately began, only for Augustus to hold up a hand, silencing him.

"You hold with you a blessed soul, borne of a fragment of our Emperor's very _soul_, brother-sergeant. Act it. Now go, I've studies to do," he ordered. Archassus hesitated, ready to argue for a moment, but let it die in his throat, plodding out of the Librarius. He had his own studies to do, training and other such activities, anyway…

* * *

**Happy Halloween, Imperial citizens, astartes, dipshit xenos and depraved heretics! Not a very spoopy chapter, but 40k in general doesn't really _need more _spookiness. **

**REVIEWS!**

**Danny79: **Mk III power armor? That was more of a specialist issue version that were never intended as a replacement for the Mk II. Being one of the on lower middle size legions the Thousand Sons were one of those who could fully equip all ther legionnaires with the new Mk IV power armor when it came. Granted smaller still means that they had between 80 - 90 000 legionnaires before the Horus humbug kicked off.

Some 62 000 was on Prospero when the wolves showed up and started to kill everything since Russ was to lazy to call dad and ask if the whole kill Magnus order he had got from Horus was real. What a idiot.

Will a bunch of highly kleptomaniac bloody ravens show up later, and super loot things before they stumble on Magnus and his followers?

**Yes, I completely forgot that Mk III was a specialist armour, but I'm not gonna bother replacing it, as Mark III armour is, as the mortals say, 'pretty cool.'**

**Bov: ***Frothing at the mouth for choice of magnus' characterisation*

Na kidding, it great and unique keep it up.

Ps. Like what you did to the space marines. They remind me of the reasonable marines.

**The Sentinels are meant to be the closest thing you can get to the Knights Inductor without being it, as it should be. They're borderline where the reasonable marines are just right fekked.**

**I'm covering this one in sections, bold being my response, not being the review itself.**

**Tobi14: **The mechanicus does not let their technology remain broken they truly don't know how to fix their technology.

**Yes, this is correct, but you're hearing a biased report. We know how it really is, but Tomika is biased due to her own experiences and finds the Mechanicus to be idiotic. **  
Again real ironic this unknown hating the black templars given they have no known accomplishments and the templars expanded to be the closest thing to a legion not seen in the ultramarine successors or dark angels while the dust sentinels squandered their legion.  
**The Black Templars fucking everything that the Sentinels stand for, because it goes against their philosophy of NO HERESY and NO MUTANTS, where the Sentinels believe all _human_ life to be valuable, and (a majority at least) believe that the Emperor isn't a god, he's just a really cool guy.**

Nice to see magus playing like a kid. Wait these thousands sons were daemon worshiping chaos corrupted? So Tzeech lost a lot of his toys there is no way that chaos god is going to take that lying down and not send billions of his cultists,chaos marines and daemons after him with the traitor marines hoping to gain the glory of killing magnus for daemonhood and to make their brotherhood the new favorite of their god, while the rest hope to capture him for their ever changing god.

**You're very right, Tzeentch is fucking furious right now, but he's also a schemer and realizes that he can't take on an entire legion of space marines, alongside the God of Light.**

Remnant is not the best place for a massive chaos siege with the grimm chaos monsters occuping most of the planet leaving lots of uncontested landing zones and a population in the hundreds of millions at most.

**Tzeentch still has shit to deal with before he can coax his spiky-bois into another black crusade.**

**This was Chapter Six! Tell me how you feel about it in the reviews, hope y'all enjoyed!**


	8. Current Status of this story

Semper Fidelis.

This story will not be abandoned, but it will be undergoing a mass rewrite-make it more enjoyable for myself to write, a bit less convoluted, all sort. Chapters marked To Be Rewritten (TBR) are the second iteration of the story, the first round of rewrites, which will be replaced once the new story is fully ready to be rolled out. I will be gifting you all with, hopefully, six chapters to start off the new tale with, so there won't be any run-off. Unmarked chapters are original iterations. You can find updates on the progress and my status on the forum, the URL you can find here:

forum/Magnus-Invicta-Fires-of-War-Forums/228888/

Just put that at the end of the normal fanfiction,net home page and it should pop up. There's an outdated QNA post and a post with more information on it now. With that, I must bid you all adieu. There is planning to be done! Thank you for continual support, I appreciate the feedback eternally.

Sincerely,

Commissar Waffles.


End file.
